


Strangeling

by MorganMacCallum



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, BAMF Hermione Granger, Child Soldiers, Dark Hermione Granger, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, F/M, Hermione Granger Needs a Hug, Manipulative Tom Riddle, POV Hermione Granger, POV Tom Riddle, Possessive Tom, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Pureblood Politics (Harry Potter), Slytherin Hermione Granger, Tom Riddle is His Own Warning, Wool's Orphanage (Harry Potter), we are gonna talk about the trauma of conflict like proper folk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:54:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 30,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26449597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MorganMacCallum/pseuds/MorganMacCallum
Summary: Hermione finds herself in an unfamiliar yet terribly familiar world with no way to return. With her mind still locked into combat, she had to try and blend into a world that she is entirely separate from. She has to convince Dumbledore to defeat Grindelwald, destroy Voldemort's horcruxes, and then kill the boy herself. None of the tasks are easy, and with her fractured mind and the world making it so difficult for her to simply rest, she finds herself at a standstill. If Tom would stop being so human, she would be nothing but glad.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle
Comments: 42
Kudos: 156





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As a warning to everyone: I am tackling some very serious matters of PTSD in this narrative and Hermione will have many violent and destructive thoughts. Tom Riddle is his own warning.

Her legs felt like they were being torn apart, stretching to their absolute limit like the steady peeling of a rubber band pulled too far, on the very cusp of snapping. She kept running, she could not slow down. Run, run, run until your legs snap, and even then, keep running, because if you stopped you were dead.

Never slow down. Slowing down killed Ron, and she lost sight of Harry. Maybe they killed him. Maybe he fell into a ditch, maybe he was still running. She could not think on it. Could not think on anything. Through dead wood she ran without rest no matter how her legs screamed, her jointed thundering and lungs whistling with a violent agony through every muscle in her body.

Do not slow down.

Keep running.

Do not let them catch you.

She had only a second to see who was after her before they moved. She saw no clear faces, but she knew what an Avada looked like; had the exact hue of green stitched into the back of her eyelids. No, she had only a second to see them and that was too much already.

Hermione did not know where she was going, only that it was away. She hated her shoes, they were soaked through and stained in a thick layer of wet mud, slapping against dead leaves and through tree roots. If she slipped it was over. If she tripped, she may as well hope that she was struck dead by it for it was better than being caught.

Do not slow down.

Keep Running.

How many times had she done this? Had they done this? Ran like frightened rats over and under every obstacle in sight and prayed that there was a god out there that would listen to them and get them somewhere safe? She did not care to count; it was her life now. She was lucky she had not eaten before she ran, otherwise she would have thrown it up.

She was looking, then, for a way to hide herself. She knew she could only run for so much longer before her body gave up. She was not a long-distance runner before they joined, but she wished she were then. Then she could run for hours at a steady pace. If she survived and the war ended, she would make sure of it.

If.

What cruelty could be held in two letters.

It was broad daylight. An assault at night they could expect, but daylight was worse. Somehow, the ghost was more frightening in daylight; no time was safe. She did not even have the option to delude herself.

She kept running, but she was starting to slow down despite her mantra. Her legs could only keep moving for so long and in an instant she stumbled. In that instant she came upon a root. In that instant her foot hooked under it and her entire body toppled violently forward, landing her on her knees.

In another instant the thundering of footsteps came her way. In that instant she drew her wand and fired. Only when she tried to cast did she see that her wand was broken. Cracked in the centre the moment she fell. She only saw the splinter when magic ripped forward, splitting the wand in half and throwing that hue of lime green in every direction like a ruptured grenade.

It hit its target, the man dead before his eyes could even widen in surprise. It hit the trees surrounding them, stained the ground a bile black, and ripped her from the ground. It threw her back, back, and into the dead oak behind her. If she were not already in pain, she would have felt it, but all she felt was the splintering of her lungs, of her heart and mind as the killing curse tore through her beaten body like a lightning strike.

She did not imagine she would ever feel it; she always thought that once it hit you it was a quick death. One instant you were alive, and the next you were dead. As simple as a bullet to the brain.

She could not help but be startled by the sensation of death, of how violently it pulled her back, how her entire body seemed to float after it shocked through her entire body. Of how her senses vanished one after the other. Her hearing went first, then her smell, then her taste, though all she had tasted was blood, then sight, and finally touch.

It was like floating in a deep black ocean on a moonless night.

Hermione remembered the time it was late at night and she was drifting in the back seat of her parent’s car. Her father had turned the corner on a bridge too fast and for a brief second, they were airborne before the car hit the ground.

The sensation was the closest she could get to her current predicament.

Senses returned to her with a violence unmet and she let out an agonising scream as torture ripped through her body.

The ground was a harsh gravel around her, the dirt too sharp and too mean on thin skin already splintered. There was a loud ringing in her left ear, and she could taste the blood where she had bitten her tongue in her fall. She tried to open her eyes, but the sky was blinding, and all she could smell was burning and decay. She did not feel like she was alive, though her body told her so.

She would have preferred death, coughing out her agony as she willed herself onto her elbows, struggling to stand. There was a crunching, and something was pointed at her. She had enough wands pointed at her to know that was likely what was aimed at her head.

“A qui ai je le plaisir de m’adresser?” A female voice, musical but sharp.

“I don’t know French, but if you’re some supremacist wizard I suggest you hurry the fuck up and kill me.” All politeness went out the window a long time ago, and she had no reason to be polite to someone pointing the wizard equivalent of a gun at her. Had she not just been running for her life, and was in a great deal less pain, she would not have sworn. As it was, she was too sore to care.

“Ah, an English girl.” The woman said as Hermione dragged herself into an extremely painful sitting position. “Are you one of Grindelwald’s followers?”

“If he were alive and in front of me, I’d attack him the same way I did any maniac that tried to kill me.”

“Fair enough.” The wand was pulled away. Perhaps the woman had a clue that Hermione was in a significantly more irritable mood because of the wand in her face. “You are wearing strange muggle clothes, so I doubt that you are one of his. Mudblood?”

“Fuck you.”

“I shall take that as a yes.” The wand was taken out again, Hermione bristling. “Do not look so angry, I am one too. I will help with your injuries, yes?”

Hermione did not know where she was, dark eyes scanning the environment for any nearby death eaters. She was not where she had lost her senses. Instead of a beech wood forest, she was in an open, muddy field. There were a few strands of wheat remaining, stalks of lime green piercing at a smoke-filled sky. Still spring, at least. She smelled the bodies rather than saw them, but she had become adjusted to the acidic odour; it was a disturbing thought. How many corpses did it take for her to not care for them?

“Where are we?”

“France.” She squinted at the woman as her sore muscles were slowly healed. She was in no mood for joking. “We are about 15 kilometres away from La Havre. Are you feeling any dizziness or confusion?”

“No. Uh- I was last in England running from the death eaters.”

“Death eaters?”

“Voldemort’s soldiers.”

“I have never heard of this Voldemort. He has a stupid name.” Hermione snorted at that. She knew its French meaning, glad for the relief in her legs she had been so deprived of. “He is one of Grindelwald’s men?”

“More like heavily inspired by him.”

“Putain de merde, they really are everywhere. I suppose this is not your battlefield, then?”

“No, I don’t know how I got here.” The fact that the woman in front of her was talking a great deal about Grindelwald and they were fighting in France set Hermione’s teeth on edge, but she did not allow herself to panic. Not yet. It was not safe enough for her to panic. “I’m Hermione.”

The woman did not say anything for a while, healing the rest of Hermione’s wounds and standing up. Hermione followed soon after, feeling uneasy on her own feet. The muscle pain may have faded but her legs were still pulsing. If she moved in any direction she would still lunge forward where the pulses pulled her, telling her to keep running even though she could see no immediate threat. That did not mean the threat was gone.

The field was quiet beyond the rustle of the wheat. She could see abandoned farmhouses in the distance, a small windmill. It was a large, flat space. There would have been nowhere to hide.

“My name is Farrah. Follow me, and we will take you back to camp.”

Farrah was taller than Hermione by a couple of inches with dark hair tied into two sturdy braids. They could have used magic to get to the base, but Farrah did not seem to want to. In a coat that was stained various shades of brown, and with tense shoulders, the girl always seemed to be looking.

“How old are you, Farrah?”

“Fifteen. You?”

“Eighteen. I turned eighteen in September.” It felt centuries away. She had not celebrated it. They were still moving then, and shortly after Ron had split from the group for a short while. Tensions were too high, and that wretched locket had made everyone too angry to think. She wished she had the opportunity to destroy it herself, but Ron had much more satisfaction in obliterating it from existence. She had a morbid, disturbed delight in hearing it scream, though. “I have to ask. What is the date?”

“April 14th, 1943.” Hermione clicked her tongue. She knew enough about world war two to know when the battle of Normandy happened, and adding that to the pressure of the specifics of the date did little to ease her frazzled mind. She considered her options. She did not know how she got there, and part of her hoped that it was her dying mind trying to entertain her.

Hermione knew better than to hope. If she were to survive until whatever saw fit to bring her into this world took her out of it, she would need to adapt fast. Farrah, it appeared, was a foundation for her to work from. It was not the best, but it was not the worst. Hermione was no fool, if she were back in time then there was no dodging the matter of her having altered the future already.

She kept her eyes on her filthy shoes. Watched one move in front of the other at a languid pace wondering what she could do next. The options were limited, and she did not think she could get back to the future, seeing as she had no idea how she had travelled to the past. She did not think she wanted to go to the future anyhow. She was as alone there as she was presently, and they were simply delaying their own death. She considered that if she were in the past, she could use it as an opportunity to help her former present.

With a steady sigh, Hermione concluded that unless the universe attempted to stop her, she would have to force herself into a new position in this world. She knew Voldemort was alive in this time. In school, in his sixth year come September. That would make him sixteen. If memory served her right, he would already have two horcruxes. Or was on the way to having two; she did not know the exact months he gained those horcruxes, but she knew how. She would listen closely to such rumours.

That was fine. She had already helped destroy so many, but she could not underestimate him. She had to keep her guard up; he would know if she destroyed them if she made herself known to him at all.

‘Blend in, blend in. You’re so good at that now.’ She resisted the urge to grit her teeth. She knew she was lying to herself. She blended in well in a war zone, but Hogwarts was not at the forefront of genocide. She would stand out for the tension in her shoulders, for her cold eyes and vicious eagerness to tear at anything that she deemed a threat. Hermione knew she was not stable enough to blend into Hogwarts. ‘Perhaps I can use my war-torn tragedy to cover up hostility, though.’

Such thoughts continued to run through her mind as they walked along the drying path amongst the fields, and in the distance, Hermione could see the ruins of another farmhouse next to the path.

“I see you have some sort of scheme in your head.”

“The only one that can beat Grindelwald is in Hogwarts. I need to get there to reason with Dumbledore.” She decided the best solution, for now, was to work with the resistance. Help with one rebellion and stop the need for another by killing the future threat.

“Dumbledore does not want to be reasoned with.”

“I can convince him.” Farrah offered her a side glance but kept walking. The girl was as rigid as she. They were both soldiers, always watching always listening with a hand gripping too tightly on a wand.

“Where is your wand?”

“It broke before I got here. The spell I used splintered it, which likely got me here.” An Avada that sent her backwards through time. If she had the means to, she would document it for future reference. It would not be useful for anyone but herself, though. She also suspected she would still be arrested if she revealed herself to go back in time; intentional or otherwise. That was information she reserved for when she knew it could not be used against her. Her words had to be weapons; every single word had to count.

“You will need one for Hogwarts. Got the money for it?”

“I have some. I think once I convince Dumbledore, I can settle there with some sort of insurance. No family to speak of, play the pity role.” Farrah laughed at that.

“You are definitely one of us. They probably put you in Slytherin like being clever is a bad thing.” Hermione did not see herself as much of a Gryffindor anymore. The things she had to do to survive the war put such crude thoughts of bravery away. Bravery only mattered to people who were afraid to die.

Hermione resisted the urge to tell Farrah as such. To Farrah, Hermione had already been in Hogwarts; that was what had been implied by her fighting in England. Hermione would not correct her, but she would have to tell a different story to Dumbledore.

“I don’t think they’ll remember me, I had to do a few things to cover my tracks.” In case Farrah did investigate further. Farrah did not say anything beyond a simple ‘ah’.

“Well, if you do end up in Slytherin look for Kaite Mortimer. Alias for a friend of mine, she is trying to get more information from outside the war zone.” An ally. Hermione could use more of those. She nodded slightly, then focused on the farmhouse.

It was 19th century. That was all she could say on it. The stones were various hues of grey, the roof partly destroyed, but mostly slate. The window frames were painted white, splintered with time. She could see cobwebs and abandoned farm equipment; no one would bother to look in such a place. Farrah knocked on the door and after a moment they were let in.

Hermione knew such faces. She knew her own. Bandages and scars and dead eyes. They assessed her the way she did them, all sizing each other up as a threat level before Farrah slapped her hard on the back:

“I found her in a ditch somewhere. She comes from England fighting the good war with us.” Farrah shoved past her without a care, causing Hermione to stumble somewhat. She felt both ordinary and too abnormal in that moment, pulling into herself.

“Never curl up, they see that as weakness, head high hands behind your back if you cannot stop them shaking, English girl.” Announced one of the older boys with a missing eye. He was serving something in a large pot over an open fire. Farrah snatched a bowl from him and shoved it at Hermione.

“You look like death warmed up, so eat. Eat and then weep.” The soup was not terrible, a touch too greasy, and the bread was going slightly stale but was not noticeable once dipped in the soup. She did not weep, but she did eat. She ate though it felt like she was eating polystyrene. She could taste nothing, and worried that dying had stripped her of her sense of taste.

She learned their names. They were a small fraction of a larger rebellion, and the youngest member of their group was only twelve. She was not surprised; in conflict everyone was a victim. The fact that the child had a scarred face and was stitching someone’s arm shut was grim.

“Why not use magic?” She asked the child. Apparently, she was called Sparrow, though she knew it was a nickname.

“Good to know it practically, and Grindelwald’s men pay attention to when magic is used.” It made sense. Sometimes, she had to do the same though once she settled into magic it was difficult to do things the muggle way. There were many things that she had neglected because magic made it easier. She would not slip up again.

“So, I am guessing that if you are here when you were in England that you have some mad plan?”

“Not necessarily, I came here by accident but…” She considered her words carefully. “With the reason of being a soldier, I believe I can convince Dumbledore to combat Grindelwald.”

The boy shrugged. She had not caught his name, but he did not offer it.

“It is a good trick for adults on the fence. Show them your scars, show them tears, and they might be nice enough to throw you a bone.” She did not think she could show tears, she buried them too deep. Scars she was reluctant on, but she did know that her age was still to her benefit. Eighteen was still far too young for many, though for her plan she would need to pretend to be younger. She was lucky to have most of her mother’s genetics; even half-starved she still had a soft face.

Hermione did not sleep that night, though it was the first time in a long time that she had been near a bed she could sleep in. She could not rest while she knew there to be a massacre two miles away, and both Muggle and Wizard armies so terrifyingly close. She had not slept decently in a long time, and she doubted she ever would.

She could hear some of the others sleeping while others were on guard duty. They were too loud for her. She could hear their breathing, their footsteps. They were being too loud, they would get caught, they would get caught and-

“Hey.” She had no wand, but Hermione had a blade, turning sharply in the chair to lodge it into the throat of her enemy. She stopped just before she killed Benjamin.

He was the tallest of the group with curly black hair and olive-green eyes. He was also, according to Farrah, the one that had fought the closest to the enemy. She forced her beating heart still, her arm stalled in the air. Her muscles would not relax, pinned in place. He knew such reactions well.

“I was going to say there is a silencio on the entire building so they cannot hear us outside.” He took it in stride. “You are fresh from the battlefield, I summarised that too much noise would be stressful.”

She furrowed her brow, trying to steady her breathing as she eased her arm flat against her side.

“You know, if that is how you react to situations I do not think going to Hogwarts as a student is the best idea.” She opened her mouth to protest, but she could not argue. Even with the excuse of being on the battlefield for as long as she was, it would do her no good if she ended up killing a student in her fright. This world was not built for trauma like hers. She ran a hand over her face, trying to push herself into some sort of calm. “If it does not work, learn some nursing tricks. The world can always do with more doctors.”

She watched the sun rise, watching into the inky dark until it bled into bruised pink. Into orange into yellow into pale blue, and she would have thought it a beautiful sunset if smoke were not still billowing from smouldering fires.

She was up the same time others were. With a broom in hand, she tried to make herself useful by sweeping the red tiles, desperate to do something to keep her mind occupied. Food was limited in her time, and with the small group who were not intending to stay at the house for too long. It was still too obvious, Benjamin said. They would all be going separate ways to help other factions. Farrah had already left, and Hermione was left waiting for a car to pick her up, still in her bloodied and battered clothes. She looked like she just came out a horror movie.

Hermione did not know the man’s name, but Benjamin introduced him as Mickey. Mickey had a short white beard and an appropriate cap to look like an ordinary farmer, eyeing her bloodied self with no lack of curiousity.

“Ah, you have been out there for a while.” She nodded, uncomfortable with talking. Mickey was her ride to the train station, so she knew she had to try and get used to him, but she had not rested, and it was dangerous to relax around unfamiliar men. “Open the back of the car and get yourself a set of clothes. You will want to be trying to blend in, they will not let you into the station if you are covered in blood. Take the time you need.”

Hermione did not take the statement lightly. She did not need to take her time, she fully anticipated that she had less than she thought. She wished her bag had survived her escape; it would have been easier to clean with it. As it was, she had to rely on soap and water like any other. She watched Mickey and Benjamin through the top window of the ruined farmhouse, ensuring that they were doing nothing suspicious. She could not read their lips. Watching them out of the corner of her eye, she stripped down and scrubbed herself clean. It was not clean enough. She wanted a proper bath; she wanted to scrub away all the dirt and blood. As it was, her hair did not feel clean enough and her skin still in need of hot water. Her wand would make it easier.

She felt odd in such clothes. Long bloomers and an undershirt with frills. They were not of the time, but they felt better in covering her up. With added stockings, blouse, and skirt, all the untidy parts of her were concealed, hidden from view. If she had some sort of perfume, she could spray herself with it to hide the odour of ash. Her perfume was in her bag, far from her. Her hair was pulled into a tight bun; it still felt messy.

Mickey was quiet through the journey, though he stopped on the road at some point. Hermione thought he would kill her, but when the wand was pointed at her, she was clean.

“Figured you were feeling uncomfortable with that.” She suspected that what he meant was that she smelled terrible and he was fixing what was upsetting him. She would not argue but did not turn her eyes away from the wand until he put it away again.

She was taken in a car along bumpy roads with an older member of the resistance who looked like a humble farmer and her his distressed granddaughter. That was what he said when anyone asked at the train station where she stood. They saw the look on her face, her tense shoulders and legs wide apart and recognised it. Everyone knew what a victim looked like when they were on the defence, and the train station was busy.

There were more people than she had seen in months alive. They were bustling in a space she thought too wide open yet too crowded to take cover in. The exits were too few and the roof was glass. There was too much glass. She could not watch everyone and knew that if someone were to sneak up behind her that she would have barely any time to defend herself, and without a wand she was more vulnerable than ever. She knew hardly any self-defence. She only knew the basics of what her father taught her. She damned her past self for not learning more on how to keep herself safe without a wand. What fool relied on only one weapon?

“Hermione.” She jolted, turning to acknowledge Mickey’s voice. He was with two other men that Hermione did not recognise. She hesitated in moving closer, glancing around before approaching the trio. “This is my granddaughter Hermione. She was in the rebellion and well-, I suppose you see how she is.”

Hermione’s frown deepened. She knew it was to sell her instability to them, to get her in a better position of security, but she hated to be talked about as though she were not there. She did not glare, but her stare was certainly sharper.

“She has requested to continue her education at Hogwarts but, of course, with things being as they are here and with her…”

“No, we understand your predicament Dubois. Your wife sent a letter in advance. Fortunately, Hogwarts has taken on similar refugees. We would be glad to have her.” Hermione watched them closely for any suggestion of insincerity. Any deceptions that suggested that they looked down on her for her blood, for her crimes and for her tense shoulders. She could see nothing, but that did not mean she was required to let her guard down. They could be exceptionally good actors, and silently she wished she had learned more legilimency. All she knew, so far, was that she was lacking in many things and that she would need to improve them very quickly to survive in this world. She held back on gritting her teeth.

Mickey patted her affectionately on the shoulder, but it did not bring her comfort though she understood that was what was intended. After an awkward moment, she slipped away. The two men, it appeared, were talking to the ticket master. They would need to get to the appropriate wizarding station and use the floos. She did not know much on French transport, and only knew that she was on edge in a muggle station.

“Report to us when it is safe to do so, Hermione.”

“Copy that.” She hesitated. “Thank you for helping me, Mickey.”

“You have a plan, and this place will do you no good. I hope that, whatever happens, you feel better at Hogwarts.” She was too polite to say anything. “And Farrah mentioned this Voldemort. It is a stupid name. I hope you do not find him, or if you do, he pays for it.”

She smiled awkwardly. Voldemort’s name was incredibly stupid, and hearing others joke about it brought a rare glimmer of amusement into her eyes. She would have the task of convincing Dumbledore to eliminate Grindelwald as a threat, as well as in destroying Voldemort’s horcruxes and then the boy himself. None of the tasks she had given to herself were easy, but she never thought she would have an easy life here. That was far too hopeful.

“I will stay in contact if you do the same. Inform me of any changes and I will try to pity Dumbledore into killing the dark wizard.”

“You could always use the sharp blade of your vicious humour.” She had not spoken to him much on the journey, only a few mean remarks from the two of them towards traffic and people crossing the road. She thought she rather liked him and did hope he and the others she met survived the war. She hoped she could at least talk to them again.

Hope was a dead thing in the water. She did not hope too hard.

The two men were awkward around her. From what she gathered, they helped refugees fleeing the war, but were not directly involved in combat. She could not tell them about the conflict, and she struggled to answer their questions in a way that did not seem rigid, as though in an interview. The majority of what she told was true, but not all of it. She confirmed that she was no longer with her parents and did not know if they were well. She confirmed that they were both dentists and she was originally from London. She lied that they had moved to France when she was ten and thus had no record in Hogwarts although she would have gone there had they not moved. She said that she had not gone to formal education due to the wizarding war and that she had joined the conflict at a young age. She lied and said that she had turned sixteen in September and that she would be in sixth year if she attended Hogwarts.

It was a small lie, but it would put her in the same year as Voldemort in an appropriately subtle manner. It was explained that she would need to go through the exams to confirm whether she was suitable for formal education. She would also have to be sorted privately. She would be given accommodation, though from what Hermione gathered it was a muggle orphanage. Hermione did not hope it would be comfortable; that would mean it would never happen.

Hermione had to be dealt with in the wizarding world long before she was thrown into the muggle one. She did not speak a great deal to anyone as her situation was whispered about amongst professors. The summer holidays were far away, but not too far. She would be a spectre in this year, would be able to skip it altogether if she could; seeing as she would be doing the exams soon.

Standing ridged at the wall staring at nothing but hearing nothing, she was vaguely aware of someone talking. Hermione knew Myrtle had died in 1943, though she could not recall when, meaning that Voldemort already had one horcrux or was on the cusp of having one. She did not know if the second would follow soon after, the victim having been a member of Voldemort’s family, but the holidays had not begun so she did not think so. Myrtle would die soon if she made an error, and in the same year Voldemort would take another life and already have two horcruxes. If she had a clue of when Myrtle died, she could destroy him before he made his horcruxes. She had to have no proof against her.

Voldemort worked fast when he needed to tidy up or, at least, he did. In her future, he was not so quick because there was little reason for him to do so. She had to be aware that the one of present did not have as much power, but he was far more efficient. She would have to be clever. Cleverer than him by a mile to avoid being caught. Hermione did not hope, but if she did, she would hope that he never even suspected her.

“And you are Miss Dubois?” She had heard him come out, though she did not know who until he stood in front of her.

There was a faltering in her mind. A brief two seconds where she found herself out of the water, thrown like a fish onto the deck blinded by the world around her struggling to breathe, struggling to get back to the world she knew.

In those two seconds she managed to bury herself again. This Dumbledore was not her own. She was aware of that. His beard was trimmed short, his hair rested in dark grey along the shoulders with the slightest hues of ginger still present. His eyes were still bright and alert and, in that moment, filled with sympathy for a beaten soldier girl with too much blood on her hand.

“Dubois is my grandfather’s last name. My last name is Granger, sir.” She knew she was not going forward in time without disintegrating in some manner. She doubted she even existed in the future anymore, which made her silently wonder if she was in her world’s past, or another past. It made her head ache in an unpleasant manner, so she did not dwell on it. She would not find the answers she wanted there for now.

“Of course, Miss Granger. I am Dumbledore.” She nodded firmly; hands still held firmly behind her back when she realised his hand was out. She clenched her hand, then unclenched it before releasing it from its place and setting it firmly in his own hand. She had a strong handshake, the tension in her body refusing to relax. She needed to find a way to get him to face Grindelwald.

“I have heard your name amongst the other fighters, sir.” There it was. A tiny flicker of guilt. She would have to play subtly with him. Hermione did not know much about subtle. She would have to try anyway. She opened her mouth to say more when the door opened.

Hermione knew she did well in the exams. She knew because she had done them before and even when it was her first time, she got top scores in every exam. She had the answers memorised. She could tell every ingredient involved in a love potion through smell alone. She could add notes that had not been included in earlier times; she could give details that did not exist yet.

Hermione was brilliant. She was not bragging; it was an objective fact and before she finished the exams, she knew that they would say so when they marked it. She used to take pride in being the brightest witch, but now it was just a point she would have to work with in the narrative she was planning. Hermione knew her marks would be high marks, she silently thought with no lack of confidence that she could be as smart as Voldemort himself, but she would have to keep her mouth shut in class. A candle, not a bonfire.

It was a bizarre thing to allow her to wander the school ground unattended, seeing as the school grounds were dangerous even without a basilisk wandering the hallways; which she doubted it was unless Voldemort changed his mind and decided he preferred the muggle world after all.

Hermione would stand out even if she were not alone. She was not dressed in uniform. She was dressed in a white blouse and long green skirt. She had heavy military boots, her left arm was bandaged, and she had a few patches and scratches on her face that had not been healed because there was no point in doing so. She thought there was a perfectly good reason to heal them, in that she would start picking at them until they bled if she were too distressed.

No matter the circumstances, no matter the time, the one place Hermione would go in any building would be where there was an abundance of books. When she was told that it would take a couple of hours for her papers to be marked and that she could pass the time by exploring the grounds, she immediately started towards the library. She doubted that in a time where Voldemort was a student that it would be safe, but if she made an impression of being there regularly there would be less questions on what she was doing there. Less doubts on her causing trouble, on getting information. That was what she told herself, knowing full well that she wanted to go to the library to see if there were books there that she did not have access to in her own time.

There were many books she had not seen before. She wondered if they had been banned or destroyed in her time, but with no librarian present and outside of the restricted zone she piled them onto the nearest desk that she had claimed as her new territory, and got to work. She intended to make up for the gaps in her mind, skimming through to see what topics were unfamiliar to her. There were not many that she did not know, even the darker subjects. She needed to know dark things in a war; she could not be scolded for that. Or, rather, they could scold her, but it would make no impact on her. She did what she could to keep those around her alive.

There was no clock and Hermione resisted the urge to check the time. She would pause, occasionally, to listen to the sound of footsteps but focused almost entirely on reading. This was what she had always resorted to when the situation was difficult. Whether it was when she was in elementary school, in Hogwarts, during summer holidays, during the time they were on the run, she would always find something to read. Reading was how she uncovered most secrets; it was how she sharpened her magical arsenal. It was how she caught that blasted snake, and how she learned about how to destroy horcruxes. She knew reading would never betray her. It could lead her down the wrong path, yes, but never outright lie if she read enough.

Footsteps came into the library. She followed their sound down the aisles. They were separated out a great deal; the person walking was quite tall. Her hands stilled mid-flick, quietly turning the page as she set her hands down. Did she turn her head to observe? Did she pretend to be an ordinary student merely reading? Her outfit would give her away if the individual noticed and then there would be questions. If she were caught looking, though, they would also notice.

They walked past her, going on to the aisle behind her. She listened, moving nothing, as they drew a seat back. She heard them set something on the table and heard them as they started bringing stuff out of what she now knew to be a bag. She heard the scratching of a quill soon afterwards. Hermione did not move for several seconds more before, ever so slowly, creeping out of her chair. It did not creak underneath her.

Hermione hated the notion of someone standing behind her. She hated her back turned away from any potential threat, and after she was certain that the person had not reacted to her moving, she gently lifted one of the books. A quiet plan to get a better look at the person on the other side; pretend that she was putting a book away.

She wished there was some sort of spell to see through the bookcases that she could use without a wand and without words, but she could think of none of the top of her head, and made a note to look for such a method in the future. After a pause, she settled on disillusionment. She had done it so often she did not need a wand anymore.

Closing her eyes shut, it took the second for her to open them again to see her lack of self. It was not her best work, but she only needed it for an instant or two. Just to confirm who was in the aisle behind her. To slip in and see if she could read their name on anything at all. It was still unnoticeable, but if she made too much noise they would know. Hermione never made too much noise when she was working.

It was her father who taught her how to walk so quietly. It was for the rare times she would sneak through the woods with him, learning about how to track animals; creatures that would avoid humans at the best of times. She had to land on the toe first, then roll from the toe to her heel from the outside, swinging from outside to in as though dancing. Her father called it the ninja walk, she called it the fox trot.

The floor made no noise underneath her. The floorboards were still a dark polished oak, and showed no signs of age, she rarely heard them creak even when she was a student. With her breathing hushed, she could slip to the edge bookcase and lean ever so slightly to see the person on the other side. She dared not step out fully; it was always better to be somewhat hidden in case the spell was spotted. In case, somehow, her magic was sensed.

The mystery figure was a student. A male student who, from the brief glance she gave his uniform, was in Slytherin. Dark hair, dark eyes, raised cheekbones, and a look of concentration on his face as he focused on his writing. He had not seen her, and she was grateful for it, silently tilting her head and squinting her eyes in the hopes that she could see his name on anything. She was not so blessed. She wondered if she could come closer, whether she would get hurt doing so, when she heard more footsteps. A huffing, elderly voice speaking to the librarian. She slipped away, the charm fading as she returned to the books pretending that she had been doing only that.

She lifted her head innocently when one of the teachers came her way. She had not memorised his name.

“Sir?” If the figure behind her did not know she was there prior, he did now.

“All of your exams have been marked, we just need to check you into your house now.”

“Does that mean I passed, sir?” She knew the answer ought to be yes, but it was polite to ask and she wanted confirmation.

“Yes, yes, you did wonderfully. I have personally never seen such brilliant work you may give our best a run in for his money yet.”

“I should hope not, sir, I don’t want to make enemies.”

“Oh, I doubt he’ll see it as a threat rather a challenge.” Hermione kept her mouth shut, but she imagined her expression said enough of her discomfort. “Well, come along. You will be wanting to get settled after this, I imagine. It must be exhausting having travelled as far as you have.”

“I suppose you can say that sir.”

Farrah had been the one to say she would likely be sorted into Slytherin. Hermione did not protest because she saw the truth in it. The sorting hat, in its own opinion, found itself debating between Hufflepuff and Slytherin, which was a twist Hermione had not expected. It reasoned with her patience, with her loyalty and determination. It was along that note that it drifted into Slytherin as determination was certainly a trait of Slytherin. She did not argue with the hat, observing those around her with a near boredom. She found she did not care much for which house she ended up in. She did not think she would be sleeping in their common rooms; the anxiety of so many people would make that impossible on its own. Perhaps the room of requirement would give her solace. What she would do for a decent night’s sleep.

She did not register the hat calling out Slytherin until it was taken from her head, the hair flaring upwards. It was only when she blinked into reality that she remembered she was being tested, and with a silent awkwardness stood upright again, clenching her hands behind her back to hide the nervous flapping she wanted to commit her hands to.

“Slytherin house will be glad to have you.” It was not the time for her to mock the house’s delicious habit of producing dark magicians and those that saw little problem with culling the wizard population for the insult of existing. Instead, she nodded stiffly. She found that she had extraordinarily little to say at all, letting others talk over her.

The headmaster’s office had not changed much over the years, she noted, though the cheer was different from Dumbledore’s cheer. It was more… she would say genuine. There were sparks of orange, of someone that was glad to be in office and had some level of comfort in being there. She had not heard much of headmaster Dippet beyond the fact that he had been won over by Voldemort as a child, like many students, and he had rejected him as a teacher.

“When the holidays end, she can go with Mr Riddle to the orphanage. It would be best to have her in an environment with a fellow student, rather than an unknown orphanage.” She turned her attention solely on Dumbledore. He was sending her to stay with Voldemort? It was a disturbed opportunity; she would give him that much. It would make killing him easier, but there was still the issue of the horcruxes.

He would die, yes, but his splintered soul would tear her apart if she only killed his body. She needed to kill the horcruxes first, and then kill him. Only that way would he have the sense to stay dead. She could only be so blessed. She already knew one of them was the diary, and the other was the ring. If it was a horcrux. She would destroy it to be sure, but she did not doubt for a second that Voldemort had hidden them away in some manner and that they would be difficult to separate from him better yet destroy. This Voldemort would be clever. She would just have to be cleverer.

She bristled and tried to dislocate the arm of the person that grabbed her while her mind was distracted. Almost too late, she realised it was a teacher and pulled back with just as much violence.

“Apologies, madame, I was distracted.” Hermione hated herself for flustering in such a manner, half-hating how she must have seemed so fragile in that moment. Fragile, but she could still use it to her advantage how brittle she was. Broken soldier, guilt them into letting her get away with it. Let Dumbledore brood, let him act. She hated to imagine the look on his face, so she did not look.

“That is- quite alright. A strong grip you have there, Miss Granger.” Hermione did have the nerve to look flustered, making note to pay more attention to avoid hurting a teacher again. “I was going to show you to the Slytherin common room.”

“Of course.” Slughorn was not there, of course, as he was likely teaching classes. She made note to try and be on his good side. It would help in covering her tracks when something happened to Voldemort if she were seen to be a good person with no open hostility towards him or any of his companions.

Neutral was the best would be able to manage, any friendship would be too false and too memorable, and though she was no longer a Gryffindor the matter of betrayal still left a slick, black sensation at the pit of her stomach. No, she would not make a friend of him.

She would not be given a uniform since she would only be there for a couple of months and as she completed her exams already, she would not need to complete classes. As such, the months between April and July were solely for her to get used to such an environment. Other teachers had been informed of her arrival, her circumstances made clear, and she could come and go to classes as she saw fit to.

Hermione did not attend the first day of classes, they were almost over, and found herself reluctant to be anywhere where there were people. Though she was a stranger, she still blended in just enough to hide in classrooms until the corridors were empty.

Then she would wander. She had bought her wand, feeling a steady relief in having a familiar sight back in her hands. She could cast wandless, but the wand was a comfort. It made her feel more real. More protected. When it was safe to do so, she would return to the library only to slip away when she heard people coming in. She avoided the dining hall altogether, the smells of food were overwhelming and made her sick, and the noise filled her brain with fuzz. Perhaps Luna had been correct on those creatures that made the brain confused. She only dared slip into the kitchens, stealing some food before disappearing out of the sight of people.

She would not touch the Slytherin common room. The concept alone filled her with dread. That was where Voldemort lurked with his followers, and where she would be tormented on the daily. She could not go there. She would not go there. She would not go unless she had to, and she did not. She needed nothing from them.

Hermione knew she was dodging the situation. She would have to slip in at some point; pretend she belonged. Pretend she was not afraid. It was the only way to get the information needed, but that did not mean she had to like it. She hated it, honestly.

She slept in the room of requirement, though not well. It gave her time to steady her mind, to think objectively. She needed to settle herself into the environment quickly and quietly. To get rid of the abnormal appearance of herself as soon as possible, to be forgotten as quickly as possible. It would only take a week or two, and by the time the holidays occurred she would be old news; forgotten amongst the cluster of various other things happening at the same time.

The room of requirement gave her something else she needed. The uniform. In the most obscure of ways, she was able to blend in. She would not, of course, until she was fully involved in classes. Even then, she knew she would be awkward. If a single teacher whispered about her history, then undoubtedly it would spread. That student that had sat behind her in the library had likely started a rumour as well; that was how schools worked.

It did not make the journey to the dining hall any easier. She stopped before the doors. She was going to go in, she had to go in. She knew she had to go in, but she stopped. There were too many smells clashing violently into each other. There were too many voices, too many clattering plates and cutlery, too many people, too many people, too many people, toomanypeopletoomanypeo-

She pulled away.

She would have to go into the kitchens on her own where it was safer.

Hermione was the first in class. She did not take a seat, standing with her hands behind her back at the back of class. She did not want to step on anyone’s toes and risk provoking Voldemort by picking the wrong seat. She needed to blend in, not catch his attention in any manner. It would be easier if she could think of a spell. Something that would make her entirely forgettable.

Instead, she watched the class filing in. They did not see her for she stood at the very back pressed against the wall and did not move a millimetre until she saw everyone take their seats. Hufflepuffs and Slytherins. Contrasting individuals. They were well-mixed, and for a long while she simply watched them when the teacher made himself known.

“Ah, Miss Granger, you managed to make it today!” His voice was too loud. She had no complaints about Slughorn, he was a good teacher and one of the better Slytherins that she knew, but in that moment he was too loud and he just announced her entire presence to the classroom all who turned her way, only then noticing that she had pressed herself against the wall with all the stealth of a spider at night.

She recognised the boy from the library amongst the students, forcing her face into continued neutrality. Neutral was soon becoming her default.

“Apologies for my delayed arrival, I needed to locate a new wand yesterday.” Her voice sounded dead even to her. It suited her image perfectly. None of her scratches or patches had gone away. She had picked at them, just like she thought she would.

“Ah yes, of course, of course, you need that in school.” He seemed to fluster at her statement; the implication behind it. “Well, you’re here now! If you’re staying for this class, there’s a spare seat next to Mr. Riddle.”

She stilled. Again, she felt that treacle black grease rolling in her stomach. She did not know if she wanted to throw up, laugh, or pass out. Two seconds of terror, of knowing that the spare seat was next to the student who heard the conversation in the library, who was called Mr. Riddle, who was Tom Riddle, who was Voldemort with a different name, who she would be staying with in an orphanage, who was watching her then who was watching her who waswatchinghe-

“Understood, sir.” The feeling was buried, buried under layers upon layers of ‘survive’, rigid steps, rigid back, rigid grip on her hands behind her back as she led herself to the gallows, sitting sharper than any ruler next to the monster.

Hermione wanted to kill him. He had done not a single thing to her yet, but the only thought running through her head was how she should kill him. How she could kill him there in front of everyone and no one would be able to stop her, including him, and if she killed him there when he revived from his horcruxes he would be too suspicious. How she should take her wand and shove it into his eye socket and turn his eye into thick soup, how she could turn all the blood in his body into pure water, how she could tear out his venomous parseltongue with her fingers alone, fingers that dug in dirt, that dug into flesh, into wounds, into her hair, into-

Her thoughts were severed. She could not think about killing him here. She would be arrested, and he would not be truly dead. He would come back and torment her. It would be entirely insufficient, so she buried the thoughts as she buried all thoughts and took out her parchment. She did not have school equipment on her, she would make do with what was freely given for now; she would get what she needed when the weekend came. For now, she had to remove herself as a novelty. As quickly as she was able.

Hermione forgot about the boy sitting next to her, to the best of her ability. It was one of the rare classes where a potion was not being made, going over what to expect from the exam. The exam she had already done. The ink ended up dripping needlessly on the parchment, setting the quill down and noting that she would have to use the parchment for another class. She hoped they were not all exam classes, that would drive her mad. She would simply be sitting there enduring everyone else.

She was no Hufflepuff, she was not as good at tolerating as the hat claimed she was. Someone would be hurt by the end of it.

Hermione was not aware of how tightly her hands were clenched on the desk until the class was over and she had to release them to move. It took too long for the colour to return to her fingertips, and by the time she realised she had not actually moved, she had become aware of the fact that people were coming towards her. Not good. Not good at all. She could not talk to people at that moment, she did not know who they were she had no means of defence.

“Are you a refugee as well?” One of them asked, a Hufflepuff with auburn hair. She was looking at them but could not see them. She thought they sounded like a girl, trying hard to hide her fright on being surrounded by so many people. Many people who’s motives and morals she did not know, who could kill her easily because the class had moved on and the teacher was gone as well because they were all moving and she was being pulled along like a doll.

She jolted into reality. Her legs had been moving on their own, her hands bound behind her back as she was putting them as a default. She was not bound by a spell; she was simply moving without paying attention.

“Correct, I was collected two days ago so I am still…” Trying to not panic in the corridors? Realise that not everyone was a death eater trying to kill her? Remember how to be a student? Learn every escape route? Talk like a person? Remember how a normal voice sounded? “Settling in.”

“Two days? That’s not long at all.” She could see that the auburn-haired Hufflepuff was a girl after all, with grey eyes and a tanned, ruddish face. Her eyes were so alive, her smile so genuine. Hermione could not match it, her face stayed neutral as was becoming her default.

“Yes, I was- recovered just outside the battlefield and it was decided that it would be best to let me recover fully around people my age.” Twist her tale, make it a tragedy. Get people to sympathise with the living-dead soldier. Convince as many people that her cold demeanour was not impoliteness but torment, since she could not will herself to pretend to be normal.

The girl seemed to understand by the way her face twisted. Hermione found herself hating it but dealt with that issue by looking away. Looking at those who had gathered around her. She could not identify them by features alone, the features were bleeding together. She wondered if she was panicking. Perhaps, but her heart was not beating fast. It was probably because they were unfamiliar faces to her.

Except for him. He had bled into the group in a subtle way. She knew he was not there initially, she would have felt his rancid stare, but he had heard her later statement for she saw a gleam in his eye. She would have said that it was like a dog with its ears pricked forward, having caught sight of interesting prey. She would rather he know nothing about her, but she knew he would hear things eventually. Rumours spread well in a school like Hogwarts.

“Well, I think you’ll do amazing here.” She nodded, the movement stilted. Hermione did not know the girl, did not know if she wanted to by friends with her or even try. “Oh, by the way, my name is Ellen. Ellen Conway. Pleasure to meet you.”

In the same way of Dumbledore, Ellen brought out a hand to shake even as they walked side by side, even in a crowded hallway. Hermione hesitated. It could be a trap, but Conway was not a last name she recognised, and she could feel no deceit from the girl. She reached out with her bandaged hand and shook hers firmly. Ellen saw the bandages, and the frown returned.

“My name is Hermione Granger.”

“That’s an interesting name.” Came another voice, behind her. Hermione turned swiftly; sharp eyes focused on the voice. She hated when people were behind her, hated that she had to look behind her to see the figure in green. Pale hair, and pale eyes. Sharp features that she recognised silently as a Malfoy. If he sneered, she was certain she would see Draco there. Subtly, she shifted in the group, so she was standing next to him rather than in front of him. She refused to have her back to an identifiable threat especially in a crowded corridor where anything could happen.

“My mother was called Helen, which was the reason behind the name.” He did not get the reference, and she was fine with that. She could not identify as a pureblood by any means. She could stretch and call herself a halfblood, but if she knew anything about Slytherin’s it was their talent for gathering information and they would soon confirm that to be false. If she gave them anymore information. She would keep that to herself, but if they ever asked, she knew she would not deny it. Could not deny it. Not for all she lost. She was far too angry, too bitter, to deny what she was for school children.

Hermione was quiet when the group settled into conversation. Splitting into two groups. She noted that with this lot they did split into house groups, and Hermione chose neither side. She chose to walk alone in the corridor, finding that she only partly minded when she thought about it in the sense that she was genuinely alone.

“Hermione.” She did not know his voice, but it felt so horribly suiting for him. A honeyed voice that gave the illusion of friendliness to anyone that listened. To her, it was just slightly out of place. Like the slight loose strand from otherwise well brushed hair, like the smile that caused no crinkle at the corners of his eyes when he stopped in front of her. He would have been behind her had she not turned her entire body to face him, to confront him head on if he chose to attack her, to charm her, whatever he intended to do. “We did not talk earlier, but I sit next to you in class.”

“Correct, you are Mr. Riddle.” It was meant to be worded as a question, but her tone was so entirely devoid of tone that it came out like a statement; like she knew exactly who he was. And she did.

“I’m one of the prefects of our house, I understand it’s a bit early and you’re still new to being a student, but if you are experiencing any trouble with other students do not hesitate to let me know.”

“Understood, Mr. Riddle.” She would not be friendly to him, but she would not be heartless. The point was to be forgotten. Just another refugee, another student that was not going to do anything to ruin his plans. Not even a person worth acknowledging. He would not expect a nobody to kill him; his ego was too large for something like that. She considered leaving it at that but spoke instead. “Can spells be cast within the common room?”

“Yes, though you’ll find that folk won’t be too happy if you make too much noise.”

“Understood. Thank you for the information.” She had no intentions of making noise, of making none at all. She did not intend to sleep in her bed at all, but to get away with something like that she would need some sort of cover for slipping out. Would they notice if she were there at all? Before Voldemort’s reign, there were many more students. Perhaps she would be invisible amongst so many. She would have to test first. “I must attend my other classes, good morning.” With a swift nod, she made her escape.

She did not attend the other classes. She spent the remaining day examining the bedroom space. She had searched the entire common room, ignoring the hissing of the snake on the portrait. Despite the fire, the common room was colder than what she remembered of Gryffindor. She knew it was because of the loch. She could see its eerie glow through the windows which did nothing against her already existing anxiety in the room; the concept of the windows breaking one day and the space flooding entirely with water, of water filling her lungs and chilling her and burning her at the same time, of trying to escape with lungs full of water, already confirmed that she would not sleep there.

The dormitory bedrooms were not as vibrant and comfortable as the Gryffindor bedrooms, but they were nicer than the ground. The material of the blankets was made from something finer that she thought to perhaps be silk, making the bed colder. The drawers were empty, the chair was empty, and the trunk was empty. She could technically hide in the trunk, but she did not want to risk getting stuck inside. No, soft bed and quality sheets regardless she would make do with the room of requirement. She would sleep in the bannisters if it were all she had. She would not sleep amongst threats.

She doubted they wanted her around just as much. If not for her blood, then for the screaming that would rip out her throat at night. She knew she screamed when she slept because Ron kept telling her so, because her throat would ache every morning. Silencio could only do so much, and beyond that she did not want to be so vulnerable around strangers.

‘It will not stop me from stealing the bedsheets, though.’ She would sleep in a room with all her comforts, but with stolen nice sheets. So long as she did not wander the corridors at night, technically she was not breaking the rules. She was being perfectly well behaved, and it was with this conclusion that she slipped away from the snake pit and made her way to a new sanctuary.

She did not care if her absence was noticed by Voldemort. Not that day.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione tries to blend in.

Hermione chose her shelter well. What she wanted from the Room of Requirement was a sanctuary where she could keep herself safe but also where she could keep herself active. She asked for safety and it understood, one heavy weight lifted off her chest and another put in its place. It was a combination of three things that mattered to her most.

She recognised the mismatched, cosy comforts of the Burrow almost immediately. Its exposed woodwork, uneven walls, patterned quilts, and photographs faint in her mind but clear before her. It blended smoothly into a space that she was ashamed to say she did not recognise at first. Pale blue walls, patterned curtains, certificates on the walls, how ashamed she felt in the fact that the pictures on the corkboard were blurry; she could not remember what her own parents looked like. She buried the grief and focused on the softness of her own bed. Warmth where she had been denied it for so long.

Hermione excused the fact that she slept through the next day, and she did not leave the room the next day. She did not care for the lack of food, clinging tight to memories she could not quite grasp; perhaps it was not a matter of genuinely forgetting her family as it was the impact of the war causing her to hide everything happy or sad. She did not ponder on it too hard; she knew that if she did, she would cry, and crying did truly little to push her forward.

Instead, she held tight onto the stuffed grey bear she had been given so many years ago, and she played old music that she only vaguely remembered the tune of. The Room of Requirement worked with what it was given, and she was glad for it. Curled on her side and wondering why she could not cry even when she did squeeze her eyes tight and say to herself that it was a safe place to do so and she had time to.

Three days she spent in the room. The first sleeping, the second grieving, the third finally looking about the space. She knew she had asked for a space to also keep herself active, mind and body. She needed a greater arsenal than she already had to be alert to the dangers around her. More than a wand, she needed the wandless and wordless. More than running, she needed combat. She needed to be ready to tackle her enemies at every corner, and she needed this before she was sent into the same space as Voldemort alone. She needed it before she had to fight him without support.

It was on the third day that she opened her bedroom closet and found not the closet, but the space required for physical training.

Hermione did not have a stop button. Her stop button was collapse and it was far too easy for her arms to give out on her after going through the basic instructions in front of her. She counted only 25 arm curls on each arm when she remembered hearing so many stories of men doing 100. It was likely an exaggeration, but it would not stop her from fixating on it as a goal along with every other method in front of her. Her legs were, thanks to so much running, more capable of endurance tests but still in a great deal of pain by the end of the day and she found herself hoping that she could recover enough the next day to go into classes.

She would consider healing them had she not remembered that it was the exhaustive strain that built up the muscle. There was something on the matter and if she had the energy for it she would have looked it up in one of the books that appeared in her bookcase; useful books that would help her in the long run. Muggle and Wizard books. She made a note to read them after classes. She learned everything from books, and she learned fast.

With her three-day absence, it made sense that she was still a foreign sight when she settled into her first class on a Thursday morning. Despite it being a preparation time for exams, she was grateful that charms were still being taught. She was very efficient at the spells, but that did not mean she was hesitant to continue training in them.

Hermione took every chance she could to improve disillusionment and descendo; both very efficient in combat. One to hide, one to delay, and while many of the students were using it to prepare for the exam, she lingered in the back seat next to a girl she did not know. Her face was as faded as any other, though Hermione knew she had red hair and blue eyes.

She thought the girl’s name was Rolanda, from what her brain let her remember, and knew it to not be a muggle name so kept her mouth shut just as the girl had no interest in talking to her. She appeared to be a Ravenclaw based on her uniform, and beyond the slight nod when Hermione sat down said little else. Hermione was fine with that. She did not know whether to trust the girl. Ellen was more obvious with her thoughts.

In the quiet of the back room, she was able to play idly with her wand, to get a feel for what truly made a spell move. Was it really the wand movement, or was that a trick that was taught to students to make it easier for them to remember? She found she could put legs on teacups with no movement and remove them just the same. When she did that, she found she could push and push and do it by saying the spell over and over in her head until it willed itself into life. It was difficult, she could feel sweat trickle down her forehead, but she could do it.

She made a note to do it with every spell. She could do wordless spells, certainly, but she had to learn to do it with every spell first. She knew only how to do it with deadly spells. With avada, with disillusionment, with spells meant to hurt. She would learn it wordless before she could do them all wandless. Wandless, in her opinion, would be the hardest. She craved the security of the wand; it made her stable. She was always told that wandless was most difficult for wizards that used wands, but that there were schools in Africa where it was the norm.

It was frustrating that they were only taught of one of the African schools, that it was treated as the only one on a continent so large; surely there were more. Maybe they were not officially, maybe Hogwarts just did not care to mention them, maybe it was community taught, she wanted to know. She wanted to learn how to-

“That is impressive work there, Miss Granger.” Hermione blinked, slowly, out of her trance and focused dark eyes on the teacher. She stared for a while, trying to remember the teacher’s name.

“I was curious to see whether it was the wand movement or the words that made a spell work, Mrs Bagshot.” It came to her slowly, but when she looked down, she could see that the teacups were running in circles on the table. Even Rolanda’s had joined in, and she wondered with a vague horror just how many students’ cups had joined hers in their demented leg dancing parade.

She counted seven. She resisted the urge to look up and see who had lost their cups, realising how hard she was clenching her wand and setting it down slowly on the table.

“I will not do it again, Mrs Bagshot.”

“Oh no, it’s incredibly impressive, how did you do it?”

If there had been a gun nearby, she would have shot herself with it. It would be more efficient than anything avada, and no one would know what she was holding until it was too late anyway. She could feel their eyes on her, feel them watching, their curious needling eyes demanding answers to questions, and she did not have answers she just did it.

“Mis-,”

“I just thought it. I thought ‘this teacup will have legs’ and it did. I cannot demonstrate it, Mrs Bagshot. I thought the spell over and over again, and then it happened.” She could feel the tension in her shoulders, feel herself wanting to run away. Too many people were watching, too many people knew her, that would remember her face and come to her later and ask questions and get angry at her for putting legs on their teacups, and they would-

“Wordless magic? You did not move your wand?”

“I kept my wand still, initially, and then moved into wordless. I understand the process and have used it for multiple spells, but it needs to be relearned for each individual spell. This was the first time I had done it with this one as it is not deemed a necessary skill for war combat, however my main challenge is in using wandless magic as the occasions in which I have not been without a wand are rare, however they are frequent enough that I intend to learn as I have heard there are many schools in Africa where wands are not needed for magic.”

She had spoken too much again. Answered the question with an essay of rushed words, her accent slipping through with no lack of repressed anxiety that by the end of it she wished she had simply said ‘yes’ and gone silent. People were certainly watching then, and she refused to look up from the desk. Why did she have to speak? Why did she have to push her limits in a classroom? That was what the Room of Requirement was for? Why was she even in classes? She did not need to be in them.

“I get the feeling you are going to be a favourite student of mine. Keep up the good work.” At least Mrs Bagshot had the decency to pick up the individual cups and put their now legless selves back on the tables of the students she had unintentionally stolen them from. It was only her eyes that lifted to look at who.

It was her cursed luck that one of those individuals was Voldemort. She wondered if a fall from the classroom’s height would be enough to kill her. She decided against it, but kept her hands firmly in her lap the remainder of the lesson though Rolanda was much more keen on talking and insisted that they sit together more often as she was ‘finally someone that actually knew what she was doing’.

She found it interesting how she had classes on a Thursday whereas in her time Thursdays were treated as a free-study time, but thought perhaps it was because there were more students in Hogwarts and they had to be reigned in in some manner.

From what she had observed, it would follow a somewhat similar routine to what would be a typical Tuesday for her. When she followed the crowd into Transfiguration, it concluded so for her though she was often proven wrong and did not declare it the truth lest she be disappointed, though Dumbledore’s familiar face was a cold comfort.

Voldemort joining by her side was simply cold. He had managed to catch up to her with no lack of speed despite her marching speed down the corridors and dodging of familiar faces. Same house, it was not so easy to slip away when he was as determined to pursue her for reasons she did not know and did not like not knowing.

Initially, he was quiet, and she was uncomfortable with that. If he were quiet, she would not know what he was thinking. Not that he was inclined to tell the truth one way or the other, and perhaps silence was better than silky lies she mused as she listened to Dumbledore speak.

His voice had not changed a great deal. Perhaps his voice was clearer than it had been in her time, age having not rotted him away with the death of a person he cared for and the deaths of so many students. The massacre of muggleborns twice over had not devoured him yet, but it would one day if she did not kill the person next to her.

Eyes slowly slid in Voldemort’s direction, trying to see the wickedness in his face that told her he was the devil incarnate lusting for the blood of any unworthy near him. That he wanted her dead as much as she wished him dead.

He was not paying attention to Dumbledore, head tilted at a slight angle as he made sharp scratches in his notebook. Was it his diary? She glanced down.

Her brain short-circuited.

He was doodling. More importantly, he was doodling a caricature of Dumbledore with massive ears and overly sparkled eyes. It was ridiculous, and she was dumb founded that it was Voldemort that had drawn it, staring bug-eyed and not registering that he had stopped drawing until Dumbledore spoke clearly to her.

“What is the main fault in Geminio, Miss Granger?” She swore she heard her neck crack with the speed with which she directed her attention to the professor.

“Geminio duplicates decay at an accelerated rate of approximately 14.6% faster than the initial product, are often of poorer quality due to this, and if a spell is interrupted midway through the process of its creation duplicates may manifest for months after the spell is produced which is an extreme hazard to health because of this.”

“And for what purpose would you use the Geminio spell?”

“…I would use it as security for an important object or to steal an important object. For example, if I were to use it to steal someone’s locket which may contain critical information, I would duplicate the object and leave it with the owner until I could safely escape with the original, either claiming the information within or destroying the original afterwards.” She never actually considered whether destroying the original object impacted the duplicates. It was something she would want to test later away from class. “Or, in the matter of security I would use it so that when the object was touched it would duplicate abundantly and crush the perpetrator to death.”

She had his attention until she mentioned death. She could feel the exact moment when he remembered, the slightest shock. She had forgotten about it, truthfully, and though her face was still she was certain her cheeks were reddening.

“That is what I would use it for.” She looked around, trying to find a face that would distract from that pitying, awkward air.

Ellen, blessed Ellen, she focused on Ellen.

“What would you use a Geminio for?” Please talk, Hermione willed with her eyes. Willing her to let them forget her again, begging it.

“Uh, I guess I’d probably use it for sweets or something. Never ending chocolate.”

“Wait, that wouldn’t work, because they rot faster, right? Wouldn’t that just mean they’d taste bad?”

“I mean, not if you eat it right away.”

“Would it even still taste of chocolate or would it just look like chocolate? And what would you do if the original went bad?”

“What would happen if you duplicated a duplicate? Would it rot doubly fast?”

She recognised the voices as other students that had hung close to Ellen when Hermione had initially been introduced and found herself terribly relieved as conversation broke forth. Piles of questions, and the students debating meant that Dumbledore was focused on answering the questions instead. Though it did lead her to wonder on some of the questions. If she fed a duplicate to Voldemort, would he die? A curious thought, she shuffled it into the notebook in the back of her mind, letting a steady sigh slip through her mouth as she tried to think of other things.

She did notice, out of the corner of her eye, writing. Voldemort must have flipped over the page after spotting her watching him. She did not look. It was bad enough being caught once; she would not be caught twice. Not until he tapped her finger, causing her to flip violently, as though he had set her on fire. In a way, he did.

He had the nerve to look innocent, tapping the notebook as Dumbledore walked past them and started talking through the class again. She hoped he would forget her slip up, but she did see his eyes as she focused on the book.

‘Not a fan of Dumbledore?’ It seemed like an innocent question, but there were no such thing as innocent questions with Voldemort. There was always a secret code behind it. Then again, perhaps she would take advantage of him trying to find some sort of even ground with her. Use it to make her neutral. Not an enemy. She was certain he would be cautious of anyone that was a fan of Dumbledore, seeing as he seemed to loath the man so in her time.

She hesitated before writing in her own book:

‘He is ashamed of where I have come from.’

There was no real way to say it in a way that did not insult Dumbledore as well. That she disliked his pitying stare though it was what she needed to get him to be on her side. That she hated the way he saw her as fragile though it was exactly what she had settled on. That she hated that he was alive and in front of her, but she could not cry or hug him because he did not know her though she knew him. That he reminded her of all that she had lost.

‘Where are you from?’

It was a simple question.

‘Birmingham, but I have been fighting in France.’ As though he did not know from the rumour mill, as though he had not been listening that day. As though he were ignorant at all, which she knew he was not. He was trying to be friendly with her, trying to pose as something human.

‘You are safe here in Hogwarts as long as Dumbledore is present.’ She suspected he was reminding himself more than her. Though perhaps Voldemort already had the hubris to believe that he could take on Grindelwald if only he had a chance to fight him. Perhaps he was not so boastful yet, but perhaps he was close. She was decent enough to not reply to that, turning back to her notes.

She had forgotten for a while, before the tapping came back. She did not flinch, though she did tense when he tapped the book again.

‘You have not been in the Slytherin common room or dormitories. Did you know you had a bed there?’

‘Yes.’

End the conversation, end the conversation, he was asking too many questions. Focus on writing.

‘Why do you not sleep there?’

‘It is dangerous to sleep amongst identifiable threats.’ She just could not help herself, she had to keep talking. Writing. She could not stop herself and wished she could stab her traitorous hand.

‘Has someone threatened you?’ There was the concerned angelic student that everyone liked to see.

‘No, but I am aware of the opinion of Slytherin towards myself and others of unknown heritage.’ Leave it there and slip out. Get out of the classroom and run back to the Room of Requirement until it was forgotten. Muggleborn or half-blood she did not say, though she was certain it was obvious by that point and he knew and he hated her for it and would kill her in the future if he did not kill her to make a horcrux instead of Myrtle who she did not know to be either dead or alive. She thought she might have seen her at one point, but she had not looked properly. She should have looked properly; she should have confirmed how many horcruxes Voldemort had before committing to how to kill him. Was it still too early? Would she be immediately identified as the perpetrator? What if it were an accident like falling down the stairs and snapping his neck?

What if his ghost told everyone? It was not as though she intended to live very long after she had ended up, but if he had a ghost, he could still get others to do his bidding. He might not be alive, but his followers would be. No, she needed to make sure even his ghost did not come back. How did one erase a ghost?

He tapped her hand again, perhaps seeing her spiralling thoughts and lack of focus. She glanced at her notebook and was glad only for the fact that her intense scribbled words were layered so aggressively that the individual words were not translatable, but it was embarrassing to note that the moment a pen was put in her hands she wrote down every panicked thought. She did see the sentence that said, ‘how do you kill a ghost’, so perhaps he had a good clue as to what she had been thinking and was already declaring her a menace to destroy. She needed to avoid him more. She needed to make sure he never got near her. That he did not have the opportunity to kill her first.

‘There are other muggleborns and half-bloods in Slytherin. They have a group, some of them refugees, and keep each other safe from the more troublesome lot. You are not alone.’

She almost laughed out loud, but it did remind her of something important. Farrah had mentioned a spy in Slytherin on their side. Kaite. She could not remember the last name beyond the fact that it sounded old, like a grandfather clock. Death clock. A skeleton with ticking thoughts tapping a pocket watch telling her how close she was to death, a monster of death telling her that she was not alone and there were plenty of folk like her in Slytherin that would protect a thing like her as though he did not have a grip on the whole of Slytherin house.

Mortimer.

Kaite Mortimer. That was the name of who she was looking for. She was looking for Kaite Mortimer but had not been given a description of the girl. She needed to know who she looked like and how to reach her in a way that was not obvious. If she asked Voldemort, he would want to know how she knew her and Kaite’s cover would be blown and he could pass that on to others who would find a way to pass it on to Grindelwald as she doubted that his club of dangerous individuals were not also associated with Grindelwald’s cause.

Perhaps Ellen knew. Ellen or one of her Slytherin companions. She knew where to go when class ended, jumping to full attention others started to move out of their seats. She needed to get to Ellen and ask where Kaite Mortimer was before Voldemort heard her, abandoning her books to latch onto the girl who was immediately startled by her determined march directly towards her.

Hermione stood close, she hoped not too close for comfort, and asked:

“Is there a Kaite Mortimer in this class?” Ellen was startled by the question but did nod, pointing a bewildered finger to a figure at the front. Extremely tall, probably taller than most of the boys in the class, with pale blonde hair tied into a ponytail and, she noted, a hooked nose and green eyes. She did not go to Kaite Mortimer but would remember her. Would remember her and hunt her down when it was safe to do so. “Thank you.”

It was exactly two seconds afterwards when she realised how rude she was and stiffly apologised and told Ellen to wait before putting her work back in her satchel, to see that it had already been done. Everything in its correct place, flat and undamaged. Voldemort held the satchel out to her with what was meant to be a friendly smile. Her hands twitched at her side, wondering if he had cursed it in some manner, but it would be destructive to ask in such a public place and instead she nodded, a quick word of gratitude his way. She did not want to appear hostile. He would know every single person that did him a wrong more fiercely than those who were just uncomfortable and weird, her hands waiting for the sensation of magic as she pulled the satchel over her shoulder; glad to feel no such things. She would not drop her guard, though.

“It’s lunch next, no need to rush.” She opened her mouth to protest that eating was when you were in extreme danger but did not want odd looks. She was already receiving them and nodded again, saying nothing and keeping her mouth shut.

She did not feel much like eating around people, but she was not able to slip from the crowd that time, and Voldemort had been too close. Him and one of his pets. Lestrange, she believed, based upon the curly black hair and black, black eyes like smouldering coal that had tried to take her hand to do something to it before she drew it to her back with the other where it would be safe from any curses, though he had laughed and swore he was not up to any viciousness. She did not call him a liar but kept him and Voldemort to her side where she could see them clearly. She was aware that they might catch onto her trick in the future and start to walk slower until she was separate from the group, and that if such a thing were to happen she would walk in the very front instead.

Sitting with so many people nearby was dangerous, with so much noise and so many eyes and so many areas that she could not watch at once. There were many entrances and many exits and many ways in which a person could be hurt; even when it was safe in Hogwarts so many spells have been cast that had caused so much misery to an army of people.

And worst of all, she was sat in the stiffly polite Slytherin table next to Voldemort with Lestrange taking the seat next to her to cage her in, and she did not know if there was someone behind her but there could be and she could not check without one of them noticing and slipping something in her food and she could not focus on the food or the smell of the food or the cutlery in her hand which was bending because she was holding onto them too tightly and there were too many eyes and people were noticing her and someone was saying something, was it the bastard itself, and she was going to be sick and-

“I’m Kaite.” Her grip immediately relaxed as her head jerked upright, the ringing in her ears gone as she focused on the figure. The figure with pale hair, pale like Draco, and green eyes. Green like a forest, like the forest they hid in during the summer, green like grass, green like- “There are a lot of people here, it’s natural to assess the danger zone, but don’t try to avada anyone.”

“I have no intention of killing.” She heard her voice say robotically.

“I know, but you’ve only been in the civilian world for a couple days. It’s difficult to turn yourself off.” Kaite passed her a glass of water. “Drink. It’s got Calming Draught. Fuck knows I needed it when I first arrived.”

She considered the likelihood of it being heavily drugged, of it being poison, of it being a cruel prank. Well, she thought if it killed her, she would at least be calm. She took the glass and downed it in one, Kaite making a ‘ha’ noise as she did so.

“That bad? You on the front?” Hermione stared at the glass, waiting for the trick to take place. Waiting for the prank to cover her in boils or set her on fire. It did not come, but her panic attack did pass.

“Yes.” She said after a moment, sitting straight and, with steady hands, putting beef and potatoes on her plate, adding carrots and broccoli. She needed to eat if she were to get stronger. She needed to eat because she did not know when she would eat again.

“I’ve heard some messed up stories about what they do to muggleborns on the front, and I saw a twelve-year-old getting butchered, so trust me I understand not wanting to talk about it, but if you do I’ll at least get it.” Hermione nodded. She did want to talk to Kaite, she wanted to be with someone she could trust, but people were watching them, and she nodded to Kaite. Letting her know, letting her know with her eyes that she did want to talk, and she was certain that Kaite understood. Perhaps she could read her mind. It was one of the few times she hoped so. “Alright, if you’re having another episode I’ll be at the end of the table with the rest of the refugees. Join us any time.”

Hermione watched her go. She wanted to pick up her plate and go. Go with people that understood it, that did not see her as a filthy rat, but that would cause a slight against Voldemort who had chosen, in that moment at least, to honour her with his presence and they were watching her again though her heart was not trying to climb out of her fragile chest. Instead of pretending to be unaffected, she ate. She ate and listened.

“Surely its not as bad as she was saying.” She heard a girl mumble. Hermione followed the voice but did not look up. “I mean, we’re not savages.”

“You are not yet savages.”

She wished she had shoved a potato in her mouth faster, but at least the girl had not heard her though she knew the two boys next to her had. They would remember that she was certain. She would not stay in the Slytherin common room. Absolutely not. She would talk to Kaite, she would arrange a time to talk to Kaite, but that was it.

Classes were robotic, blurred into obscure memory. She did not participate, not truly, watching from a safe distance when Kettleburn introduced less deadly Bowtruckles to the class time and again. She had heard that he was known for getting himself extremely injured in dealing with the various animals he brought in, and his many missing limbs told her so. They were content on their tree except for one that had found her at the back of the class and had decided that even braided her hair must be branches and decided to simply live there, snarling at anything that tried to pull it away.

‘Well, now I am a tree.’ She thought with no lack of exhaustion as Kettleburn found himself bewildered as to how to go about the process of removing the creature without it tearing off his final limb or most of her hair. They could not even cut off the braid and after ten minutes it was decided to let the creature get tired and sleep before removing him, so she spent the entire class with a Bowtruckle in her hair serving as a way to teach the rest of the class about them as it continued to climb around before settling in a comfortable spot where her braids were pinned together and ultimately refusing to move even after the class had ended.

Kettleburn kept her behind to see how to go about the creature, considering a sleep draught to knock the creature out. Said creature hissed in response. It knew what he was saying, and that was immediately written down with a manic glee that she was providing so much useful information.

She could not be bothered to care about her new companion, telling it that she would have to undo her hair eventually and would move a lot. If it knew what she was saying, she would find out when she undid the braids.

Kaite had been waiting for her. She knew why, and moved up to her with the creature now settled on the top of her head.

“Couldn’t get rid of your friend?”

“He can do what he wants.” She replied numbly, though said creature was happy to agree. She was half tempted to call it Ron. She held back on that urge. “I am being encourage by Mr Riddle to stay in the Slytherin common room.”

“I mean you will have to eventually.” They walked together, the grass below them still wet from the earlier rain. “If you’re wanting to know how dangerous it is, it’s still obviously a hostile environment, but there are vicious pranks than crucio… for the most part.”

“Most part?”

“My advice, do what you can to be uninteresting to Riddle. He keeps bad company and covers his tracks well, but he is as dangerous as them with less morals. Keep your head down, and do not be around him or his crew alone.”

“Are they known for… crucio?”

“They are known for taking individuals that interest them into a space alone, and that person remembering nothing. For good reason, I think. For some reason, no one can report it either. Trust me, I tried fifteen times.” A type of curse on the room? Maybe doing a certain action in the room silenced their tongues. She would do research on it if she had a way of being sure it would not deflect on her.

“Why would Mr Riddle have an interest in me?”

“Honestly, because you’re new. He’s bored easily, and you’re something new and you’re something that doesn’t trust him right off the bat, rather than after he reveals the company he keeps. Maybe if you had been friendly at the beginning, he would have gotten bored faster. As it is, you’re someone that has experience he doesn’t have and you’re someone that is challenging.”

“I was hoping to be uninteresting.” Challenging. That was the last thing she wanted to be near Voldemort. She wanted to be so dull that he forgot about her immediately.

“Sorry, your whole teacup incident and ranting about the importance of crushing a person to death incident was definitely something he wanted to see more of.”

“But if I fake interest, he will know it is fake and might-,”

“Yeah. It’s a pickle.” They walked in silence for a bit, and Hermione thought she might just take to walking away from Hogwarts altogether and hide herself in a den in the woods until centaurs trampled her to death. “Way I see it you have two options. Stick with our group and we keep you safe as long as possible or run into the woods.”

“Can I take both as an option. Hide with you and then run when you cannot protect me.”

“Fair.” They passed through the doors. “He will get bored eventually. Maybe if you keep your moments close, he’ll forget you did anything interesting at all. He looks down on us. Not just us, but everyone. His gang just haven’t gotten the memo yet.”

They walked through the corridors, a few students rushing by them. They had a free period before dinner, and then they were supposed to stay in common rooms. That was what she could recall, at least, but she could be wrong and wondered if she was as more students passed by.

“Oh, you could be nice to him but in a distant manner. Like, no touching his stuff because he might go ‘ew mudblood cooties’, but like almost smiling, thank you, please, the whole shebang. Make him think that you like him and immediately lose interest in you. Make him think he’s won you.”

“I hate it.” Kaite laughed.

“But seriously, take some calming draught and avoid another episode for as long as you’re in the school together for the next week or two and he’ll leave you alone. He saves torment for the fun ones.”

It did not ease her, but it did give her a clarity on the situation. She just needed to be nice but boring. Nice, but boring. She had never been nice before the war, and definitely not boring. She just had to act like the opposite of herself. It would be easy.

She caught her reflection in the mirror. Being too nice would be suspicious. A switch up in behaviour so swift would raise questions. Perhaps the solution would be to join the same group as Kaite and slowly ease herself into the role. Make it seem as though it was because of a new group of friends. The power of friendship to make her nice and boring. It was believable.

She thought. Only for a moment. She knew it was not believable, but she doubted that Voldemort or his gang knew it to be a lie. They had not seen the war of their own creation. They would assume her mind magically healed.

She had forgotten that she would spend her time in the muggle world with Voldemort as she mused on this, nodding her head as she made her way to the security of the Room of Requirement.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione struggles to fit into a world that is separate from her, and pushes herself to survive based on her own internal operation.

Hermione had asked for a copy of the timetable to ease her anxieties on the changes, finding herself reluctantly in the headmaster’s office to ask for it knowing that she would not dare to ask anyone else. Perhaps Kaite had she spotted her, but in that moment, she did not see the tall blonde and the thought of going into the dining hall so early in the morning after her previous episode made her nauseous.

It came with the bonus of knowing that at least in the morning there were no classes. Her first class would be at ten o’clock and it was Transfiguration. Fridays followed the Wednesday class routine. Saturdays and Sundays were days off as well as Mondays. Tuesdays had a Friday routine, and so forth.

‘I can use that three-day gap to get what I need.’ She wondered whether any books in the wizarding world had access to defence classes. It would do her good to know how to deal with physical confrontations, as unlikely as they seemed, and it would catch wizards off guard as well. When she punched Draco in the face, he certainly was not prepared. It brought a rare smile to her face as she folded the paper into her skirt pocket.

She did not go into the dining hall until students started to file out, slipping in as people pushed out, using the crowd to be unnoticed in her pursuit of something to eat. She needed to improve her nutrition to remain strong, and coffee alone would not keep her functioning. She was already too skinny from being on the run so long, any thinner and she feared she would snap like a twig; it did not help with muscle growth either. Frankly, she also missed eating food with flavour, although she would tell herself it was purely for practical reasons and she was not as homesick as she thought she was.

She was always watching for anyone that might spot her, that would see her face and recognise her and try to talk to her. Normally it was her hair that gave her away, so she made a good habit of tying it into tight braids pined into a tight bun, delaying the time in which it would spring free; an hour or two at best. Half the time she thought about cutting it, but she always pulled away before she could will herself to grab scissors; it was the one time she would admit fully to the fact that she was attached.

Without her wild hair, she was easy to forget. She watched the tables for food left on sharing plates, slipping croissants, banana, and apple into her pockets, standing whilst heaping tablespoons of porridge into an empty bowl, eating it whilst watching the crowd become thinner and thinner, inhaling the food with such force she worried she would throw it up, but not stopping and downing orange juice immediately after.

Maybe some had noticed her, she could feel their eyes, but they were far enough that she would see movement and once she was done, she retreated immediately. She had not eaten at the Slytherin table, half worried that someone would have pranked the food to curse anyone that touched it. She did not think it possible, but she had not seen it being eaten and did not know what was safe. She trusted Gryffindor food more. She knew it was biased, and she would not be able to eat it if there were people there due to the constant conflict between the two houses.

Hermione knew she needed to establish a routine outside of classes. Routines kept her panic levels down, they told her what to do and how to respond to scenarios, they kept her mind and body busy and she would never delve into the state of anxiety where she felt like she was not doing enough. As she sat in the library brooding over a notebook, she wondered what to do. She had several tasks, one of which was to confirm Mrytle’s status as dead or alive. If she was alive, she needed to keep her alive and prevent the development of the first horcrux. If she was dead, she needed to ensure that the second horcrux was not made, or that the basilisk was terminated. It was a plan in the making and based upon the health of Mrytle. She also needed to locate the horcrux that was Voldemort’s journal and destroy it.

Then she needed to kill Voldemort.

Killing was not something she particularly enjoyed as a concept, monster or otherwise. She derived no pleasure from it, and every time she was put in that situation it felt like her chest was being hollowed out a little more. It did not get easier, no matter what others would suggest, she just felt a little less and she worried about it. She worried how much of her had been dug out.

Still, like all things, she had a mantra in her head. That if she were to go home, the other person could not. She was going home. They were not.

She did not have a home to go to, her mind told her many times before.

Others could, though. Others could go home, so long as he did not.

‘Okay.’ It would not settle, but she closed her eyes and the book. She would cross that bridge when she came to it. For now, she needed to reach the starting point of her operation. Morality would come into the equation later.

She made sure, that time, to come to Transfiguration classes when it was due and wait with the other students. She could sit with anyone if she did so, knowing that wherever Voldemort sat she would not.

Hermione was starting to recognise Ellen in a crowd. Her face was clearer than others, a face not blurred with the knowledge of insignificant death. She was a saviour to Hermione who made a beeline straight to Ellen’s side like an anxious dog, startling Ellen who had not seen her come so close.

“Oh hey, Hermes.” It was not her usual nickname, and in a way that made her glad. She did not know how she would react to being called Mione. Perhaps she would cry. Perhaps she would not respond at all. Either response was troublesome, so she willed something of a grateful look on her face at the nickname.

“Hello, can I sit here?”

“Absolutely.” With a stilted nod, Hermione took her seat. She was less tense than the previous class, but still aware of watchful eyes on her. At least, she thought, Voldemort could not sit behind her or next to her; all those seats were taken. A defensive shield of humans. In later years it would mean nothing at all, but as he was human and very much a person that could face the consequences of his actions it meant a great deal.

It was not so great that instead of his usual seat he had taken the seat directly in front. Much to Ellen’s delight, it appeared, as her face lit up like a Christmas tree and the smile was rather difficult to hide until one of Voldemort’s companions joined next to him and the smile turned into a sneer.

“Oh great, it’s Rosier.” It was muttered and perhaps in the shuffling to sit down her grumbling was not noticed, but Hermione heard.

“Is there an issue?” She asked in a level voice, not too high and not too loud, though she was heard, and a glance was offered her way.

“Oh nothing, I’ll tell you later.” Hermione did not push. She already had a good guess on Rosier being a hater of muggleborns the same as most people in Voldemort’s gang. A plan was settling in place, primarily to understand who made up Voldemort’s initial gang and who to avoid or anticipate conflict with. Who to show no mercy towards if they were to point a wand in her face, as though she would be reckless enough to ever let it come to that.

“You could write it.” She said, quieter, a smirk spilling onto Ellen’s face.

“Coming out of your shell?”

“I can go back in, if you prefer.” Though it was said with an attempt at a smile; trying to seem as though she were recovering. Not a particularly good one and one that vanished immediately as Dumbledore settled into class and silence settled into the room.

Hermione waited until a couple of minutes into the class before writing her note. Her writing was different from how it used to be. As the situation grew more tense in her world, she had changed its cursive nature into something that could be read quickly and understood well. If it could not be read fast, then the information would take longer to reach its destination and in those situations it was deadly. She was perfectly fine sacrificing seven years of calligraphy practice if it meant there were less people to bury, and truthfully, she felt no need to put so much effort into pretty words. Not in that moment, at least.

‘Is Rosier dangerous?’ She pushed along to Ellen.

‘Dangerous, maybe. Bitch, yes. He, Avery, Lestrange, Mulciber, Malfoy, and Nott absolutely hate muggleborns and pull some vicious tricks on people. Riddle disciplines them when they’re caught, but they’re sneaky.’ Ellen’s writing was scratchy, reminding her vaguely of Harry’s writing style; not terrible but certainly sharp.

‘Is he not their friend?’

‘I think he’s trying to teach them better.’ How to get away with it, Hermione thought, but did not push. She did not want to seem nosy, to get questions on why she was suspicious of Voldemort. Best to make it a passing mention.

‘Then I will avoid them all.’

‘Difficult in Slytherin room, but sure.’ Hermione did not mention the room. She did not know whether Voldemort could read minds yet and might try to get knowledge from Ellen seeing as she had chosen to sit next to her. The less she knew, the better.

They were learning the vanishing spell again. She remembered it well, and with a vague fondness, for the fact that she had been the only one to successfully vanish a kitten; most of the class struggling with mice and others with snails. She had improved somewhat over the years to larger living things, but was not as confident as she was with other spells and would not do it wordlessly with a mouse until she could do it with a snail, and in that moment, they were all focused on mice.

“You done this before, Hermes?” Ellen asked after her third attempt had failed, the mouse watching with glinting eyes. Her cheeks were puffed out and hot air blew into the face of the mouse.

“Yes, I managed to vanish a deer, but I am not confident.” Taking Ellen’s frustration as a cue to help her, Hermione spoke her. “When you flick your wand, keep all movement in the wrist alone. Like with a pen.” With her wand pointed at the returned mouse, Hermione spoke again. “I do not think of the mouse vanishing with a pop, things do not just stop existing, I imagine it like… rotten fruit. It breaks down into nonexistence piece by piece, not all at once. The mouse spirals away into the air we breathe.”

She did not think it was a good explanation, but she did not know how to describe that she imagined atoms splitting into smaller and smaller pieces until it was just air. She doubted Ellen knew what atoms were; it was not on the criteria for wizards and most muggleborns forgot such things if they did not read about it when they returned to their homes. She knew a few that had forgotten such things. Careless, she thought, as it helped to learn more. It was easier for her to just show the movement and say the word than it was to explain the process behind it. Simple instructions were easier to work with, but Ellen did nod.

“Just thinking of rotten fruit.” She fake gagged, but after a steady breath she said the word: “Evanesco.”

It did not work immediately. The mouse stood triumphant before her, Ellen judging the small creature accusingly. Then, a second later, there was no mouse. It was simply not there. It had ceased to be and before Hermione could congratulate her, she was tackled into a hug.

“I did it!” Hermione was bristled from head to toe, everything ceased in action. She would not move, she could not move, she was caged in and part of her was terrified and another part was glad for any form of positive contact, both sides relieved when she was released. “Jack, Jack, look, the mouse is gone.”

Attention was on their table when Dumbledore heard Ellen’s loud voice declaring her success with all the energy of a puppy. Hermione kept her head down, staring at the table and where her own mouse had been. When she lifted her eyes, she could see it the same with Rosier and Voldemort in front who were watching as everyone else did. They had heard her describe the spell to Ellen who was beaming at Dumbledore’s praise and added house points. Of which Hermione received some, also. She did not think it necessary seeing as she was not technically a student yet but nodded again.

She did notice how he did not even look in the direction of Riddle. He did not acknowledge him at all. Cold though she was, it was hardly a decent thing to dismiss him as that, but perhaps it was a one-time incident. Then again, based upon how Riddle doodled the man it did not appear as though they were on good terms.

“So, you said you have vanished a deer?” She was snapped out of her thoughts by the unfamiliar voice. It was not Voldemort’s, so it must be Rosier’s voice and she willed herself to look up. He had olive green eyes and dark blonde hair. Pretty, she mused, but as deadly as the rest.

“Yes.” She knew she was supposed to elaborate in some manner but was purposefully making it difficult.

“Why a deer?”

“I wanted to improve the scale of which I could vanish living things as non-living things are easy to vanish.” She mustered, directly looking away to offer Ellen a glance. She was showing the students behind her how to use the spell now. “I wanted to know how to vanish a person.”

“Sounds horrifying. I absolutely do not want to imagine what it is like to be vanished.”

“You could write a book on the experience and become famous.” It was an almost shrug. Why was she talking, she did not need to add more. She was only making her own life more difficult by giving them more reasons to acknowledge her, but she just could not help herself. Some hidden deprived part of her beamed at the attention, enemy or otherwise, and just talking to someone. Talking to someone about something other than war and bloodshed. How terribly lonely she must be. She needed to lock such lonesome thoughts away; she had a mission. She was all that she was and once they learned she was a muggleborn they would certainly turn on her.

“I am known enough.”

“Of course, begging your pardon, sir.” There, she closed the conversation. They could not push her, and she would not push her. There was a huff of air, was it a snigger?

“I am Fabien Rosier.”

“I know who you are, sir.” She said it with a nod. “I am Hermione.”

“We know, you have a lot of interest.” She frowned. Something that was somehow possible on a face that was already frowning. “Not in a bad way. I am sure you have heard many things from other houses, but I can assure you they are mostly rumour.”

She doubted it, seeing as most of it was fact, but she did not spit venom.

“Which may explain why you have been avoiding the area like we are about to hex you into non-existence.”

Say something.

“It is not a personal distrust towards the Slytherin household overall, as I have no basis for comparison.” The words slipped out easily. “My caution is associated with every house within Hogwarts. This is an unfamiliar environment, a crowded space, and I do not know anyone and thus cannot trust anyone.” Explaining it out loud, she hoped, would mean that she would be left it peace more often under the assumption that she was simply uncomfortable. “I am attempting to engage with other refugees as they have been in familiar circumstances, please do not take offense.”

Please do not take offense, please leave her alone, please do not direct attention at her. It was too soon for attention. She did not know how to switch off, not yet. It had barely been a week. Her injuries were not even healed. Do not expect her to calm down so easy. And if they realised that she was just an awkward person trying to survive they would soon lose interest. They had to lose interest, and she had to stop talking to them. She had to stop making herself memorable.

“As I said before, Hermione, if there are any problems do not hesitate to tell me.” Voldemort’s voice came through, finally deciding to speak. Whether to end the silence or to try and build the bridge of trust towards her she did not know. It was only one class and already she could feel exhaustion taking hold of her.

“Understood.”

“And, personally, it might be best to get used to the common room before next year. Avoiding it so often will likely get you expelled.” She nodded again. She knew that she knew she needed to settle down, that she needed to get used it, that she needed to stop avoiding the issue and face it head on. She was a Gryffindor for crying out loud.

“Understood.” She knew she had no choice. She had to stop running from things that made her uncomfortable. She had to at least pretend to settle in, but she was failing so miserably for her own anxiety.

They kept asking her questions throughout the day. In classes, they would be near her and ask questions. Where was she from? England. What was her accent? Birmingham. What did her parents do? They were dentists. Why was she in France? Parents were helping with the muggle war.

Question after question, and then when dinner came, she could not slip away as before. Voldemort had looped the entire gang into his twisted game and Ellen was unintentionally helping whereas she was wanting to scream and tear out her hair that she was tired and wanted to sleep when another voice came into the flurry:

“Hermione, over here!” Kaite had seen her turmoil, looping an arm around her own and pulling her forward. “Can’t you see you’re stressing her out? Only three people at a time or she might accidentally break a nose!”

It would not be accidental, but the crowd of teenagers did pull away somewhat. Not without reluctance.

“Come on, same respect you gave the rest of us before you got bored, two weeks recovery then you can hound her, let her turn off the killing button, step aside.” She was vaguely aware of Kaite exaggerating her accent but knew it to be Cockney. More Cockney than Cockney; the same mockery that she would put on her accent when she wanted to annoy someone that called her uncultured.

Bizarrely, it was Riddle that took a step forward to apologise.

“It was untoward, I hope this will not affect our future relationship.”

“It had done nothing towards our future.” Stiff, and with double meaning, but not hostile. Not hostile, no matter what, nervous eyes fleeting to the group who, to some degree, did look embarrassed. “I hope that there will be no hostility between us, but I should eat.”

“Of course.” She did not let out a sigh of relief until her back was turned. Kaite was bolder than her, could be bolder, and she was grateful for it. With the group by her side, perhaps she would be able to settle more comfortably.

Even in the group of refugees she was out of place, but ultimately it was a matter of time. She could see it in their eyes, in a hand twitch, a rigid back. They had all come at different times, all earlier than her, and were wearing the scars the same way as her. She could see one girl, younger and smaller, with a distinct cut just under her left eye. Another boy with a nose that had been broken at least twice. Kaite herself appeared casual on the surface, but Hermione could see her eyes reflected in her own and knew that, at least on some level, they would understand each other.

“Farrah sends her greetings.” Hermione stated, keeping her head down. She could see Kaite’s hands twitch.

“Glad to see the bitch is still alive.” Was her response. A means of communication had been silently established between the two. Or that was what Hermione believed; she hoped that she did not misunderstand and perhaps she would send a letter to be sure, jolting when she felt a tugging at a loose hair strand.

A vague blur of green wiggling to climb up the ringlet into her hair; she had completely forgotten about the bowtruckle that had labelled her its tree. She had left it next to her bed hoping that it would forget about her in the morning and find an actual tree to live in. Had it wandered the entire castle to find her, or had she just not noticed it latch onto her in some manner? Surely, she would have noticed if it latched on; it was not known for sneaking.

“Oh, hey it’s your plant buddy.”

“Yes, he appears to have found me.” Her tone was as bland as white bread, but the bowtruckle was perfectly content to sit on the top of her head and her company to oo and aa at it. There were worst things to suffer through, she supposed. At least they were known for being violent towards threats against their trees; perhaps it would bite off a death eater’s finger. That would be a hilarious sight, if not a twisted one.

Hot chocolate, oddly enough, was the thing to ease her mind. It was likely because she poured calming draught into it, but hot chocolate had a familiar warmth to it. Even in the direst of times, she could drink it and find herself somewhat comforted even if it were just because it kept her hands warm when the forest frost bit at her fingers.

It gave her enough courage, only enough, to will herself to face Slytherin room. To face a responsibility, she had been dodging for some time, and knew that she was better facing then rather than later. She stood before the door knowing nothing of the password and waiting for someone else to open it for her.

Ron had told her that when they broke into the Slytherin room in second year that the password was pureblood. She wondered if was common but doubted it would be so then. It was more likely that it was:

“Mudblood.” She was disappointed when it opened. She should not be, but she was, and was almost glad that she had been the one to say it as she stepped through the door with her hands clenched behind her back. One was held at the edge of her sleeve ready to pull out her wand if need be. Not that she needed to; it was more the threat of its existence that gave her comfort.

Hermione had never been into the Slytherin common room until that day. She had no reason to, having no friends from the Slytherin house and with a strictly guarded password she never anticipated, nor desired, to step into what she expected to be a cold dingy dungeon.

Of course, as she made her way down the stone steps, she was fully aware of the fact that it was actually warmer underground than it was overground so the cold part of the dungeon would quickly be pushed aside for the natural warmth of the earth.

From what Harry and Ron had said, it seemed like a positively grim place to be in, but as she descended all that she noted was that it was very green. Stone floor and stone walls were covered in various rich tapestries and rugs, arched ceilings hiding a carved pattern of beautiful flowers, vines, and snakes. If she were anyone else she would think of the garden of Eden. A greenish glow settled into the room as a result of the lanterns which drifted like will-o-wisp, although it was not dark and dingy; she could see perfectly well with the added illumination of the lake through the many windows.

It was not the homey comfort of Gryffindor. Everything about Slytherin’s common room spoke of luxury. She knew that there were many donations into the school and into Slytherin house as a result of wealthy parents ensuring that their children had the very best, and it showed. Carved chairs and carved sofas of plush comfort almost tempted her forward, but she remained rigid.

It was not a place of comfort for her. She felt inferior simply standing there. As though she were lower, an outsider, for not naturally being able to afford such things.

She locked the feeling away. She put it in its box in her mind with other such unpleasant thoughts. Thoughts that distracted from the fact that she was not meant to be comfortable in Slytherin’s common room because it was not meant for her, and because the room was full of people that would happily see her dead if they knew anything about her.

A few had seen her, having heard the door open though they would not have heard her coming down the steps. That was an issue she would have to anticipate in the future. It was best to observe her vulnerable spots then, while there were only five people in the common room.

The first was that half of the staircase was exposed, so while she was not visible for the first half anyone could start shooting at her legs from then on. Further still, if the stairs got wet it would be quite easy to slip on them; they were uneven as all medieval stairs were.

The staircase ended some two meters away from the furthest wall, and what sat there was a round table and many seats. Next to that, in the centre, was the fireplace. The fire was recently stoked, the fire light crackling in the quiet of the room. She could see a large portrait of a white snake above the fireplace, shifting and hissing and she knew that if she could speak parseltongue that it would have very few good things about her.

If Voldemort asked the snake about her there would be trouble. How did one go about stealthily destroying a snake portrait? Another question for another day and likely to be found in a book.

The only blind spots were to be found around pillars which kept the roof up. Furniture was as much a cover as a hazard, but at least it was not a large open space. It was difficult to dodge attacks in a place like that.

‘Not great, not terrible.’ Was what her mind told her as she slipped to the furthest edges of the wall. Into the darkest shadows. She could already hear the door opened and pressed herself into a chair. One that was on the staircase wall; few people would look directly down and with it being a dark space anyhow she could almost be invisible. ‘Someone needs to know you were here if they are to say that you are not avoiding the place.’

Maybe the solution was not to sit dumbly in place, then, but to time it so that when someone was entering, she was leaving. She had wasted an opportunity by sitting down when she heard the door open and people clambering down the steps. People that she realised, as they came into her view, were Voldemort’s gang.

She could use the situation to her advantage. They had communicated with her at least once, or some of them had, so they would recognise her when she left. If not by how she walked, then at least by the bowtruckle that was still clinging to her head with what appeared to be some level of tension. With a steady reluctance, she raised a hand to pat what she assumed was its head as she watched the group. They had not noticed her yet, although she could see one of the lamps coming towards her and knew that it would light her up partly; she noticed how they followed people perhaps so that when they were studying, they always had a source of light.

The round table next to the fireplace appeared to belong to the gang. The boy that had been sitting near the fireplace before soon moved in a way that most folk would consider casual, but with a nervousness that Hermione knew well. The anxiety that others had for Harry when they thought he was the heir of Slytherin.

‘A troublesome situation.’ She would have to move quickly but at least make sure she was seen even if she appeared to be ignoring them. She pressed her lips together, calculating how exactly to go about it.

Eyes slid over to the bookcase on the opposite side of the room. Not one, but several. Any of the books in her satchel could be accounted for as a part of the bookcase; she saw many books that she recognised. She could take one out, or put one in.

She did not want to give away any of her books. She had gained a possessive attachment over them for the simple reason that they were hers and one of the few objects she had that linked to her past. Hermione understood, also, that there was a risk of inconsistency or dates well ahead of the standard time that would be in danger of discovery. She could imagine that the book would be investigated if she put it in the bookcase.

So, she would have to take one out.

Okay, she thought, that would be simple. She would not even look. She did not need to, because it was only an act, although if she had more time and was feeling safer perhaps, she would read it in the safety of the room of requirements.

After far too many minutes of overthinking, a recent habit well beyond her standard of quick thinking and deflecting, Hermione rose from the chair. She could not fake casualness because in the attempt it would look unnatural; she was simply not a casual person so she kept her arms still at her sides; the closest to relaxed she could ever be.

She made her footsteps louder. They needed to make noise so that they would know to turn her way. She knew they were watching because conversation fell quiet, and she could feel their eyes on her. Yes, her mind said, I am here, and I am engaging with Slytherins. There was no need to enquire constantly on the matter of her feeling isolated if it were obvious that she was in the Slytherin area at certain points and in the same space as them; that she was not purposefully avoiding others but others avoiding her, and she was fine with that. One less thing to converse over.

Hermione did not turn their way, did not acknowledge stares as she pretended to scan the books. They were all the same blurred letters to her, picking one dark book amongst many before tucking it under her arm and making to politely flee the area.

“Ah, you can’t take books out of the common room.” A younger voice announced. It was close, causing her to turn, sharply, with the book now wielded in both hands. It had almost been raised to strike the assailant. Almost. She had held it back when she connected the voice with a young person. The book was now a shield and the brief combative second was returned to rigid politeness. She did not need to maim a child.

A second year, perhaps, with a pale face and dark eyes. A girl. She looked like one of the boys in Voldemort’s gang and silently Hermione connected the faces in her mind, though she did not know enough about wizarding families to know how she was related. That was Ron’s specialty. Ron would be able to tell who was related to who simply by looking, and Hermione would have to resist mentioning the Habsburg family every time.

“Understood.” She did not turn her back fully on the child. Child though she was, Hermione knew children to be just as cruel as adults and teenagers when they felt wronged. Into the gap in the bookcase the book went.

“What is your name, I have never seen you here before.” Maybe she was not a child, maybe she just looked young. It was dangerous to make assumptions based on appearance, but it would do her no good to attack someone with so many witnesses.

“I have only recently arrived.”

“Oh, so you must be Hermione.” It was not said in a particularly insulting way, but Hermione grit her teeth anyway. Something about knowing that others had heard of her in uncertain circumstances was just as discomforting as a wand to the throat.

“Correct. What is your name?”

“Walburga Black, pleasure to meet you.” Not a child, and even if she was a child Hermione’s shoulders tensed.

She knew Walburga Black, and with no lack of unpleasant memories. That howling wretch that cursed every slur at her neck when she stood too close. Even being in the same house was nauseating, though Hermione tended to stay in the room solely to upset the portrait and took a disturbed delight in when the portrait finally ran out of insults to throw at her as she stood there in muted pride. She was a wicked woman and Hermione enjoyed reducing her portrait to only glares.

Hermione would admit that she looked altogether healthier in front of her then compared to the haggard old lady in the portrait with the wild hair and hateful eyes, although if Hermione tilted her head right, she was certain she would see it in the girl.

Her hair was neater, with less grey streaks, and tied into a standard bun the same way most girls had their hair. Nothing too showy, which was separate from the wealthier girls that Hermione had observed, but she did notice a dragonfly pin holding back a few ringlets from her hair.

Hermione knew she was supposed to say something, but she had never been good at understanding such cues and it was with an awkward jolt that her arm shot out into a handshake before she remembered it to not be something common in this wizarding world. Farrah had warned her of that. Walburga stared at it with a raised eyebrow.

“I am afraid I am no man and cannot kiss your hand.”

“Begging your pardon, madame. It is a standard greeting to shake hands where I am.” She pulled it away, flustered that she had done it in the first place and fidgeting to put her hands behind her back once more. Damn her for caring for awkward silences, she should let the discomfort settle; it did not matter if people thought her stiff and cold. They would be less inclined to interact with her.

Even before the war she was awkward and clumsy with such things. The number of times that she missed the meaning of the simplest cues and caused herself and everyone else misery was comedic in a tragic sense. It was like she was in first year all over again.

“Good evening.” She needed to get away and hide herself. Everyone had seen that awkward gesture, and there was no doubt that Voldemort would know what it meant. He would know and he would be suspicious and want to investigate further.

As though she had not given herself away earlier. She started, remembering that she had mentioned her parents were dentists. Her parents were dentists, which meant that they were not wizards. She had used the plural, she remembered that in particular. Not dentist. Dentists. He already knew. He knew that she was a muggleborn and was waiting for her to slip up. Was waiting for her to drop her guard and then they would descend upon her and tear her apart.

She needed to get out. She had fallen for a trap, she was in danger and needed to get out before they drew their wands, she needed to get up the stairs and get out the door, she already knew the password. She knew the exact number of steps there were, fourteen, and how long it took to get down the steps, so she knew how many seconds it was to get up them. She knew it took half a second for the door to open after saying the password.

“Shaking hands, that is an odd thing. What does it do?”

“It shows the dominant hand is not armed.” She said it as her mind was running a mile a second, realising that she was panicking and that Walburga had not pointed a wand at her. She would not have to defend herself against the girl, but how quickly could she run from the boys?

“Oh, that is quite clever, well,” A hand was brought out, the same hand Hermione had offered. “A pleasure to meet you.”

Hermione knew it could be a trick but gave her other hand to shake stiffly. She wished she could see Walburga beyond the dark lenses of what she had become, seeing her gentle smile as something that did not hide its madness, her dark eyes as something warm rather than cold.

It would only take an instant for Walburga to learn of her heritage. It would only take Voldemort telling her that she had just engaged with a mudblood for the eyes to turn angry and wicked, and Hermione would bury another piece of herself knowing allyship was not something she would get here.

Allyship was something she was abandoning as her hand retreated behind her back and she calculated her escape route. She needed to show some sort of activity in the dormitories without endangering herself. Oh, how blessed she would be to have that.

‘This is what happens when you worry about staying alive.’ She should shove that away as well, then she would make her merry way over to Voldemort then and just slice open his throat. And he would not know until the knife was out that she had one attached to her belt. Under the sweater at her back where her arms normally rested.

‘You still have to confirm whether Myrtle is alive.’ She reminded herself.

A task. Something to distract herself from her darker thoughts. She needed to locate the girl, and to do that she needed to engage more with the Ravenclaw house.

Who was the girl that had sat next to her when she produced the dancing teacups? Rolanda. Her name was Rolanda, and she had mentioned interest in being Hermione’s partner more often after her performance. Thursday mornings was when she had that class. Another six days before she could naturally locate the girl, and no guarantee that Myrtle would still be alive by that day. She did not know when the chamber of secrets was opened, and that was the problem. Harry had never given her a specific date, and she could not recall from the newspapers at the time.

The room of requirement would produce what she was looking for. That was what she hoped for. If she paced with enough desperation surely, she would find the articles. Compare that to the current date and she would know whether Myrtle was already deceased, and if she were not then she would know how long she had.

“Excuse me, I must locate some research papers.” She thought she said it out loud as she straightened her back and, with a firm nod, made for a swift retreat. If anyone called her name, she ignored it. She knew someone did.

She did not care.

She now had another objective to plan for. She needed to get to the room of requirement. The less time she wasted, the better. Myrtle was the key in her operation either dead or alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I won't deny it is difficult writing Hermione in mission mode because when there are delays in it the anxiety is a nightmare to write; a person always on the edge gives you the same paranoia while you're writing them. I hope you enjoy!


	4. Chapter 4

The date was April 21st and she had been in Hogwarts for a week, of which she had only been active for four days. The holidays were at the end of June, and Myrtle would be dead before the holidays began.

That was what she knew based on the limited information she had as she paced in front of the spot she knew to be the room of requirement. What she needed was an exact deadline; she needed the newspapers, the finer details, to know exactly when the girl was expected to die and to know when to intervene.

Saving Myrtle from death was only part one of the plan. It restricted Voldemort’s usage of horcruxes but would ultimately be useless if he let the basilisk wander around and kill muggleborns anyhow; both in the sense of the repulsive power trip and in the sense that anyone that he killed was just as capable of becoming a horcrux.

‘The objective, then, is to prevent Myrtle from being killed but also to terminate the basilisk altogether.’ She knew that there were ways to kill a basilisk with limited contact, which was what mattered the most; she could not imagine getting paralysed again. It was excruciating the first time, the way her muscles were locked together in permanent anxiety; how she could feel her brain trying to combat the methods as the paralysis trapped her very lungs in place. The only thing that kept her alive was her own magic and beating heart; a heart that had never beat as fast before or since.

She was practically blind for several days after due to her eyes drying out and on the first day had to use a potion every two hours to get them to work again.

No, she would prefer long-distance assault and when she finished her pacing the door was open to the room of requirement. She made sure no one could see her in the corridor before stepping beyond its threshold, closing the door tight behind her.

Hermione found herself in the archives of her parent’s workplace. Metal shelves upon which boxes and boxes of files were sealed. LED lights flickered above her, cold walls with protocols and generic instructions for the care of documents was presented. A large photocopier and printer sat in the corner of a far wall, and next to her stood a water tank. A metal table with metal chairs sat in the centre, recording devices left in place with a single box sat in place.

It was not comfortable, but she was not after comfort. She was after practicality, and information.

Dropping her robe on the back of the seat, she set about opening the box. Inside, she found what she was looking for. Newspaper articles from the year 1943, and the year before. After pulling the articles out, noting them to all be from the Hogwarts newspaper, Hermione retreated briefly to get water knowing that she would have to be thorough in her reading. The bowtruckle shuffled on her head, climbing down to her shoulder and towards the cup.

“Are you thirsty as well?” She asked it as it climbed inside. Well, she supposed, it was no longer her cup of water it seemed.

She wrote names down in a spare piece of paper. From October 12th, 1942 to April 11th, 1943 there had been twelve incidents of paralysis within students. Ghosts had been paralysed three times, and pets twice, with six found deceased, although the dead pets were associated with issues with the water pipes which had been believed to be leaking lead into the water supply; an incident that was reported to have been repaired during the easter break as there were no longer dead animals. Since her arrival at Hogwarts, there had been one paralysed ghost but no students following a strict regime of ensuring that everyone was retired and in their common rooms by a certain time.

Perhaps it was because of this routine that there was such concern about her wandering out on her own, even Ellen mentioning that it was risky to go anywhere alone. Perhaps it was why Voldemort falsified concern over her safety that she was not staying in the oppressive atmosphere of the Slytherin common room, although she would rather say that it was so he could keep an eye on her lest she find out something he was not happy with her learning.

Not that he had anything to worry about.

After April 20th, there would be two more incidents before Myrtle’s death. The names of the students were not listed, but Myrtle’s death was documented clearly to have occurred in the upstairs girl’s bathroom on June 13th after she had been noted to have been missing for several hours; her body discovered at 8.00pm and her having gone missing at 3.00pm.

No one had looked for her for five hours, and her body had simply been lying there on the floor with her ghost lingering over it in that time. It would have been discomforting, seeing one’s own dead body, and waiting desperately for someone to notice and catch the perpetrator. No wonder she was so sour about it. To watch yourself slowly rot away; Hermione knew all too well what the process of a dead body was.

It would have been humiliating to see.

‘June 13th.’ She had twenty-three days before Myrtle’s death.

And yet she hesitated. Not so much for the fact that she did not want to prevent her death, but for the fact that there were so many incidents of paralysis occurring. Removing the ghosts and the pets from the number, the number of students paralysed would total fourteen before a death threatened to close the school.

It was an absurd number for such a short time scale. That was an average of two a month; if it were murders it would be considered a horrifying amount and there would be protests over allowing the students to stay. Add other incidents especially towards muggleborn students and half-blood students and there was a serious problem.

She knew that most would not tell their parents of the incidents. There was an anxiety about being pulled away from a place that, despite its enormous faults, one felt they belonged. She had never told anyone about what it felt to be paralysed, the taunting that she was forced to go through, how she would always check over her shoulder long before the violence became sincere.

Ultimately, she would have to secure the safety of the school and the future of the wizarding world through termination of the basilisk as a priority, so long as it was before Myrtle’s timed death.

‘I know that the crowing of a rooster can kill a basilisk, but I have heard of other methods…’ She was more likely to gather that information from the library itself. Newt Scamander always had an abundance of information on magical creatures, but the hour was late and though she doubted she would be the next victim of the basilisk she did not want to risk the chance, and certainly anticipated that there would be troublemakers looking for someone to hex in the corridors at such an hour. Most likely Voldemort’s ilk who had seen her leave.

The debate was on whether she risk slipping into the Slytherin common room so she would not be perceived as missing, or if she remained in the room of requirement and allow speculation on whether she had been paralysed or killed like others before her.

She could afford another night of insomnia. The fact that her absence would be known from then on meant that she had to time her escapes regularly. It could work in her favour to stay in the Slytherin common room and dormitories until others fell asleep and then escape when it was possible to get a decent amount of sleep in the room of requirement. That way, she would pose as someone that was regularly within the space and warming up to the environment and allow herself a truly secure place to rest and gather information when others were not present.

The best compromise she could come up with for the time being, and after putting away her notes and the box full of old newspapers, she picked up the bowtruckle, putting it in her shirt collar to climb into her hair as it felt comfortable doing so, and made her way to the exit.

It was unlikely anyone would be on the same floor as her at such an hour, but she hesitated at the door anyhow to listen out for footsteps. With her ear pressed against the door, she waited for a full minute before casting a disillusionment charm over herself and slipping out into Hogwarts.

Hermione was used to walking silently but made a habit of casting a silencio as a back-up lest she be startled or otherwise caught off guard and stumble. It also made her more comfortable when it was not just her own skills she depended upon. It used to be a case that Ron and Harry would have skill sets that she lacked, and they would balance each other out: Ron would always be there to stop the more concerning obsessive points of her behaviour.

No one was there to stop her now, and her mind was a constant ticking clock of calculative thoughts as she observed every crack in Hogwarts walls. She knew where every blood splatter had been, where every whisper, rule, spell, and warning was put upon the walls.

Hogwarts was not a place of rest.

There was a relief in the fact that her second journey into the Slytherin common room was less stressful than the first. Somewhere along her journey she had buried the anxiety deep inside of herself and was able to think clearly on what she would do if she encountered danger there, although she was aware of the fact that it was partly to do with her first introduction; she had a map in her mind and as she stepped through the door the map was laid out in front of her telling her of every danger zone, she had a risk of encountering.

It also had the joy of being quieter, treading into the night-time hours where most students would be in their rooms or considering it. Being one of the prefects, she expected Voldemort to be gone or soon to leave.

Soon to leave, she found as she reached the bottom of the stairs to find him about to turn into them, shifting out of his way to avoid any kind of contact with him. For a single second, it seemed as though he was considering speaking to her again, but she gave him no time to do so. It would not be practical for her to engage in further conversation with him, and ultimately, he would realise that she was much like Dumbledore in her lack of trust towards his outer persona and give up any attempt to get along with her.

A better decision than the earlier suggestion of nice plainness. Disinterest was easier to fake and more closely related to her actual state of mind, although she would be disturbed to realise that even the hatred that she had allowed to fester in her heart was muted. It was more, she mused as she made her way to the girl’s dormitories, a muffled exhaustion. A duty, she supposed, to allow at least some in the future to understand peace. If she could not have it, she would at least give it to someone else.

Whether Ron or Harry, or any other, she did not mind as much. With Voldemort and his crew dead, there would be a significant number of people that did not suffer horrific lives and as she stepped through to the girl’s dormitories, she was quietly stunned by how she had failed to recognise just how much larger it was compared to the ones she knew.

Not because there were more people in Slytherin compared to other houses, this she knew form observation alone, but because there were so many more people that were simply alive. How many, she thought as she stood there in a quiet surprise, would die in the great cleansing? How many were muggleborns, half-bloods, blood traitors, or those that just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time? How many innocents, and not-so-innocents but not-so-dreadfuls were plucked out of the world before her?

She had been still for too long, and people were starting to notice her. They were noticing her glazed eyes and perhaps thought that she was lost rather than unsettled. One came up to her, she did not listen for her name but thought she looked like witches she would rather not think on at all, connecting the silken blonde hair with Fabien Rosier rather than thinking too hard on cold eyes and manic grins that threatened to tear at flesh and were grabbing her arms then.

Someone was grabbing her arms and she ripped them away, ignoring the pain that came with it and withdrawing her hands behind her back.

“My apologies, madame, I am not used to physical contact.” Came out of her mouth in its plain tone. She was used to making excuses for her behaviour already, folk poking and prodding at the sleeping dog that was her anxiety so often that she was just as quick to apologise as she was to disarm.

“Ah, sorry, I thought you were not paying attention.” A steady breath. Straighten the back and keep the thoughts steady. Think on what is practical, what is logical. Identify the individual, learn who they are.

“Are you related to Rosier?” Learn the names, learn who is who. The girl had Rosier’s hair but black eyes. Black coal eyes that she had learned to fear for their undertones; what stories they would tell.

“That I am, for a refugee girl you are learning rather quickly.” Hermione held the quip at the tip of her tongue. The girl was taller than her, only slightly, and moved with a practiced elegance as she gestured for Hermione to follow. Hermione tilted her head slightly, noting the people around her to the best of her ability.

There were just so many people. She was not used to seeing so many girls. At least, not so many that were alive. She saw strangers faces amongst them, but some that she would come to associate with danger. Girls that were already eyeing her up, whispering too loud whilst thinking they were being too quiet. A sneer, a questioning eyebrow, the occasional glance from another that could be considered pity. Perhaps allies, she thought, but she did not hope without insurance.

She followed the drifting girl with ridged footsteps although she already knew where she would sleep. Or pretend to sleep. Perhaps she would feel so safe and secure that she would actually sleep but found it unlikely. There were so many things that she doubted.

“Now I sit on your left side, Druella if you ever find yourself in a troublesome situation, and Walburga sits to your right. You already met her, I believe, and gave her that bizarre handshake.”

“I apologise for my earlier behaviour. I have resided within the muggle world the majority of my life and during this war and am thus uncertain on the customs of greetings and farewells towards other individuals. I may have offended.” Another apology, another reason to ask she not be tormented in her sleep.

It was better to tell them such an excuse sooner rather than later. Before it could be used as a weapon by another. Give her own narrative; that she had been in the muggle world for such a long time, not that she was muggle born. Give no further information, and it would excuse any eccentricities that she had. Cover her tracks before Voldemort could hunt her with them.

“Oh, it is no bother. That girl needs to get out of her home more often anyhow.” Druella seemed skittish in that moment, patting Hermione’s pillows with more force than Hermione deemed necessary and Hermione felt she would have to investigate to pillows for any sorts of charms or traps. “And, if you ask me, I think this war has only proven the absurdity and violence in blood purity.”

Hermione did not say anything, but her calculating mind paused. Only for an instant, and then Druella’s eyes lifted to her.

“But if you tell anyone else, I said that I will deny everything.”

Slytherin. She was in Slytherin, where the main defence was to protect themselves. Themselves and the ones that mattered the most to them. Perhaps more Gryffindor than they were willing to admit, or perhaps the other way around.

“Then I will tell you the same.” A nod. Not so much allies, but a mutual respect. Hermione wished she could read minds but understood the look on her face anyhow. The same look so many had when pushing boundaries in exposing secrets they were not prepared to expose. Fear, she supposed, or maybe anxiety.

With a huff, the tension seemed to ease and Druella was back into her fluid position.

“Anyhow, this is your bed. Since you came from France by foot, I do not suspect you will have any many things, but the trunk is also yours, although you will have to share the bedstand with Walburga. Not that I believe she will mind; she has always wanted a sister and though she is small she is the same age as you are at least. However old you are, how old are you again?”

“I am in fifth year.”

“Yes, but how old are you?” Hermione was quiet. How old would she be in fifth year, exactly, if she was moving into sixth year? Technically she was older, having turned eighteen that September, but she was struggling. How old had she been in fifth year?

“I will be turning sixteen in September.” It was embarrassing how long it had taken her.

“I suppose one does not count their birthdays in a conflict.”

“No, I have not celebrated my birthday in at least three years, that is why it was difficult for me to remember.” It was not false information.

“Oh yes, that will do it. I never forget because there is always a ridiculous party, but I suppose never celebrating it would make it like any other day and I do not think a calendar is top priority.” Hermione’s mouth twitched at the notion. She had not developed her fixation on exact days as strongly as Ron had; she had been more devoted to minutes. Combined, it had been a nightmare for poor Harry who was stressed out no matter what day or hour it was. The radio was as dreadful at 2pm as it was at 2am, and often she would stand closer to his room and try to play chess, she was not as good as Ron, as Ron sat in front of the radio listening for the slightest indication that his family would be next. He would not leave, could not leave, until all the names were listed and for a while it looked as though he were praying. As though he believed in a god at all.

“I am working better with time now, as a schedule is critical within a school environment.” It was a little too stiff. “And it allows me to decide whether I want to wake for early classes or hide in the walls like an aggressive cat.”

Druella snorted. Snorted.

Hermione choked out a laugh, and Druella fell into a fit of laughter and they were both laughing for no logical reason whatsoever and Hermione had forgotten what laughter felt like and had no idea why she was laughing at all. Her lungs were hurting, and she had to rest a hand on the bed because she forgot laughing hurt.

And then it faded away, and laughter gave way to shame. Why was she laughing? She was not meant to laugh, not when she was in enemy territory and not at someone who could easily take offense at what she was laughing at. She was laughing, she was laughing, and she had let her guard down and the concept alone bristled every softened edge. With a sharp clarity, she returned to her rigid form. She was certain she was blushing; her face had never felt so flush. She knew she was being watched, because laughter was so loud, and it was so terribly quiet.

She had been vulnerable in front of so many people, they would use it against her surely-

Unless she could use it to her advantage. Make them think that she would drop her guard again. Spread the word about her. Let people drop their own guards around her, flustering slightly with the bed sheets in what she was sure was a skittish manner based upon the smile on Druella’s face as she retreated. Perhaps she was used to such stiffness from other girls; Druella appeared to be the sort of person someone could open to. Perhaps because she snorted as she laughed, and it had not been beaten out of her.

Perhaps that was the trap she had laid out for Hermione, feeling the fabric of the bedsheets for the slightest shimmer of magic, and finding none.

Ah, that was correct, she needed something to sleep in. For so long she had slept in her day clothes and in recent days she had slept in her school shirt then flattened it out before going into classes. Here, that would not be appropriate and would expose her in more ways than she was comfortable. Quietly, she undid the laces on her boots and pulled them off, sitting them at the foot of her bed. Perhaps if she could find some fabric, she could magic it into a nightgown, but she had no spare fabric to offer. She could sacrifice her robe for such a thing, she mused as she took it off. Yes, there was no actual need for a robe in the night-time.

“Here.” Something was thrown on her bed, jolting her into snatching it before it touched the surface. If it had been cursed, all she would have done is burn her hands instead. It was not cursed. Walburga was already climbing into bed, her dark hair in a loose braid as she pulled the sheets over her. “You do not have things, right? Which means you were thinking of sleeping in your uniform. Or worse, naked. Take that, I do not need it. It has a horrid yellow staining I cannot get rid of.”

Hermione was certain there was a term for such a response. Hostile voice, but kind actions. Hermione kept her face blank.

“I am grateful.” She said, opening up the fabric.

It was more elaborate than anything she was used to. The type of night gown she would expect to see on a Victorian protagonist of a horror movie. Something the bride of Dracula would find to be perfect for her taste. It was soft to the touch, with billowing sleeves pulled into cuffs, lace trimming along the bottom. On Hermione, it reached her mid-calves. It would certainly cover her well enough, and after consideration as to whether it would burn her later, she pulled the curtains over her and began to change.

Add her hair, which would be contained no longer by her elaborate ribbon scheme, and anyone would think her a spectre. That was what she thought when she saw how dim her skin was against the night gown which was not yellow despite what Walburga had said.

Perhaps she just had keener eyes than Hermione in regard to such matters. Cream was white to Hermione and fine enough for her. Tugging at the sleeves to full cover her arms, she pulled the curtains back.

She wondered what they saw then to garner such odd expressions. Likely, she imagined, it was the sheer mess of her hair that had been sculpted to such absolute restraint until that point. Or, perhaps, the thinness of her collar bone.

Or, though she pretended it was not there, the sheer amount of bruising on her less covered legs.

“Once again, I am grateful that you have offered me a night gown. I will take good care of it.” She would as well. Anything that was hers was valuable, and beyond that she did not want to earn the reputation of a girl that did not take care of her things; especially if those things were given to her by purebloods. They would have far less pleasant things to say about it when her back was turned.

She did not sleep, but with the curtains drawn she could pretend to be so. Listening, always listening, for the slightest indication of someone still being awake. Hermione was patient, she had to be, and could wait the entire night for her chance to slip away into safety. The bed did not creak as much as the Gryffindor beds, and she was much quieter in lifting herself away from it when all she could hear was snoring.

Not even the bed sheets rustled as she shifted silently from her lying position into sitting onto her knees, turning her legs to slip onto the edges of the curtains, a muffled disillusionment spell blurring her from anyone who may still have their eyes open.

Hermione had long since learned to avoid the lumos when she was moving about. Even when it was under disillusionment, there was still a very dim glow that followed the wand around and although no one else appeared to have noticed it she still clung onto the anxiety that one day a death eater may realise that a patch of the room was brighter than everywhere else and attack. She could imagine Bellatrix throwing a crucio her way at the slightest error and though Hermione was strong, she would still scream at any crucio.

She had to clutch onto her arm to stop it from shaking too hard, certain the fabric would be heard. She did not like to think on crucios, on any particularly brutal spell, for more time than necessary. There was no way to counter it, so all she had to do was make sure no one pointed one at her and do to that she needed to stop thinking about it and pay attention to her surroundings.

The breath was not steady, but it was at least quiet when she escaped her bed and started on her silent escape.

With her objective being to escape to the Room of Requirement, she had failed to process the fundamental issue of Voldemort and his followers. More precisely, the exact hour in which they had their nefarious meetings. Perhaps it was naïve to believe that they would take it to some secret room rather than risk exposure in the main common room, but as she thought about it in her head, she could also see the logic in such a public meeting.

Naturally, it served as an intimidation tactic, and it also established an authority over the others; she knew that muggleborns such as herself seemed to avoid the area despite Voldemort’s initially pleasant demeanour. She could imagine it with the same uncertainty one would live under the house of a dangerous gangster. She would have to watch for longer to confirm whether there was any actual worthwhile protection for Slytherin muggleborns under scum such as Voldemort.

She doubted it, but she knew that the other houses tended to simply hate Slytherins for being Slytherins. Even when she was in Hogwarts, she thought it ridiculous, and then she started to interact with Ron and Harry more and she admitted that the bias rubbed off on her. Not that they helped their case.

‘Better the devil you know?’

So, she stood there, awkward, at the dormitory door staring down the group of boys by the fireplace cloaked under disillusionment stuck between wanting to escape and avoid dealing with future troubles and wanting to learn as much as she could about what occurred in the meetings to see how to plan ahead.

In the end, she decided that she would not be able to sleep that night knowing that she had missed out on an opportunity to gather intelligence and knelt down to shuffle down the stairs one step at a time, only gladder for the disillusionment spell so no one could see her awkward shuffle down the stairs. It was the quietest method she knew of and had exploited it many times when she was smuggling sweets up the stairs when her parents were watching TV and had been glad for the fact that it was still useful.

She could hear them, somewhat, but not enough for her satisfaction. She wished she knew that trick that Fred and George used for the hearing ear; it would be especially useful for her in that exact moment. It was another thing that she would leave to fester in her mind until she had completed it.

She knew Ellen had listed a number of last names: Avery, Lestrange, Mulciber, Malfoy, Nott. She could see the dark blonde waves she associated with Fabien Rosier. One boy, with dark hair and dark curls, she registered as looking uncomfortably like Bellatrix who she assumed was a Lestrange. Malfoy was impossible to ignore seeing as his hair glowed mint green in the fire that made her think of cartoon villains. The others she could not identify based on features alone.

Unless one considered Voldemort himself, who Hermione had engraved into the very crevices of her mind. He sat separate from the others in a seat of his own and all were watching him in varying degrees of excitement and discomfort. She imagined that the basilisk being on the loose would add to the damning allure that he was, and as she crept in the shadows on all fours, she could at least admit that he managed to be intimidating under the firelight. Even without the snake face he was still a threat, and she would remind herself of this every time.

Ultimately, it was better for her to stay and see what she could learn from the beast himself. She would not walk, wanting to keep herself as small as possible, instead crouching down and crawling towards them. Slowly, so as to avoid making too much noise, she shuffled closer and settled on the edge of one of the seats. She could use it as a barrier if needed, or to slip away.

“Alright gentlemen, you are all here. I am sure most of you know why I called this meeting, but just so we’re all on the same page, Malfoy summarise.”

There was something unusual about hearing Voldemort’s voice. The more she thought on it, as Malfoy awkwardly stood, the more she realised how forced it was. Not in the sense that he was anxious, or struggling to speak, but in the sense that there was no accent. There was no shortening of the words, everything was drawn out slowly. It was not a posh accent, that much she could confirm, but it was hiding something.

“Right, from what you’ve all seen, there are some more refugees from France, mudbloods the majority, and security has been upped. Whether because of the suspicion of an attack from Grindelwald’s lot, or because of our methods, it is tight.”

“Right.” And Voldemort stepped in. “Now, despite the muddy blood, I will have none of it on my carpet. For the sake of all of us, we are putting ourselves on the back burner and establishing a neutral position until the threat has lessened. That means no pranks, no violence, no ‘accidental’ magic tricks in the hallways. I do not want any problems with the authorities and if _any_ of yo-,”

“Tom-,”

“What?” His voice rose, sharper than usual. Hermione wondered if it was because his actual name was used, instead of his title.

“What about the blonde bird?” She did not know the person speaking but knew who they were speaking about.

“Yeah, that and the stuffy prud-,”

“No.” He cut in as Lestrange tackled the first speaker into an arm grip. “No picking fights with the refugees, especially the soldiers. I said I want no fighting, and I meant it. Unless you want to explain to aurors why you thought you would get away with it, and unless you want to deal with whatever ammunition they have, you leave it alone. Am I clear?”

He came close to them. His presence looming: a threat barely chained to the surface, pointing a finger.

“No fighting.” Silence ticked by. Voldemort, she imagined, waiting for retaliation. The boys waiting to see whether it was worth fighting back.

Lestrange blinked first.

“Right.”

Voldemort turned his back, and it was then that Rosier chose to speak.

“And what of Hermione Granger?” She jolted. Why her, specifically?

“What about Hermione Granger?” His voice was level, but she could tell that it had been spoken about before. Whatever it was they said about her, and she was eager to hear more. She wanted to know exactly what was whispered about and, perhaps, why they had been trying to pick her apart.

“If we’re supposedly avoiding confrontation, why not pretend to make allies. Well, more than you already have with that one.” She could see Voldemort’s shoulders tensing somewhat. She suspected this was a regular part of the relationship between Voldemort and Rosier; she wondered why it had not been stomped out. Then again, it did not appear as though there was a distinct layer of fear underneath all the members. Voldemort was leader, certainly, but it was not a leadership of fear. Not as it would be much further on.

Interesting.

“The standard lot seem to have already got their claws on her, and beyond that she has no interest in getting along with people she perceives as threats and, in her eyes, that is exactly what we are.”

“She has been getting along with Walburga and the others, so she’s not completely immune. If we keep at it-,”

“Why’re we interested in her again?” Rosier shrugged in a way that was almost casual when she felt something brush against the top of her head and jolted.

Not good.

She realised a little too late that it was Rosier’s fingers, and when he glanced down he seemed to have realised it. Her entire body bristled, realising her error. She needed to slip away. But her jolt had almost completely broken her disillusionment from her surprise and when she stood to run from the situation everyone was looking her way.

If she were younger she would continue to try and run away or throw a violent spell to deflect her attackers. As it was, she knew that would not work against so many people in an enclosed environment and instead she stood there, taking their own surprise as a time to respond.

A time to bury her own panic, to level her face and her body into something stiller. To see that Voldemort had opened his mouth to speak just before she had been startled, that Rosier was still holding his hand mid air in some level of shock, that Malfoy had swallowed a biscuit too hard and was trying to smother his coughing.

The crackling of the fire in the background, that no one had drawn their wands or was even close to them, that she was breathing with no lack of panic despite the drumming of her heart in her ears. That her wand was in her sleeve, that Voldemort could easily be pushed into the fire even if magic did nothing.

That, despite being caught off guard, she had the high ground. She knew something she was not meant to know, and she had recovered fastest.

So, she blinked and made her way to the seat that she only vaguely processed as being Voldemort’s seat and she was likely making herself a bigger target with her actions.

However, better her than someone that would not anticipate his threats.

She wanted to scream and panic. But screaming and panicking had gotten people killed before, and she had seen enough bodies in her lifetime. She knew she would see more to come but, at least, for now, she would resist. The only body at risk in that moment was her own.

And she was ahead of the game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been struggling to write this one for a while because I wanted to switch to another perspective halfway through, so guess who you will be reading next chapter? Hope you enjoyed this one nonetheless.


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